The case against Finrod revisionism
I’ve always been frustrated by what I see as bad-faith interpretations of Finrod’s character. You don’t have to like him or find him interesting, but it bothers me when people make claims about him that don’t make sense. When it comes to Finrod, they usually follow a similar pattern, something like: ‘I thought Finrod was good the first time I read the Silmarillion, but now I think he’s bad.’ ‘I thought Finrod was a friend of Men at first, but now I think he actually looked down on the Edain and treated them poorly.’ ‘Finrod comes across as a perfect good guy in the Silmarillion, but what if he’s secretly manipulative and evil?’ That’s what I’m calling Finrod revisionism. This is not a callout post; I’m just giving my reasons why ‘Finrod is actually evil and the Silmarillion is lying to you’ is not a take that does it for me. I think it’s entirely fair to criticize Finrod. He’s not perfect and if he were I think he would be less interesting (more on that later). I just do not vibe with interpretations of his character that paint him as someone who intentionally sacrificed the Edain in battle, someone who committed genocide against the Petty-dwarves, or someone who held prejudiced views, and I think those interpretations are unsupported by canon. This is a long post, so I’ll put it under the cut.
Category: other people’s meta
marypsue:Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels – and, by the same token, because of…
Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
marypsue:Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels – and, by the same token, because of…
Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
butleroftoast:And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the…
And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the Discworld in general. In every book, even the earlier, less dark ones, there’s a constant theme of being true to yourself and doing what you think is right, no matter what other people tell you, no matter what the world throws at you, no matter how life tries to wear you down.
It might be Rincewind just knowing he’s a wizard. It might be Granny Weatherwax standing in a world of mirrors and thinking it’s a trick question when she’s asked to identify which one is real, because obviously it’s her. It might be Vimes knowing he won’t let good men die even if history says that’s what happens, because it can never be what Sam Vimes says happens.
But the lesson is always the same: whoever you are inside, whatever you believe yourself to be, that is you, and nobody gets to steal that from you. Words in the heart cannot be taken.
warrioreowynofrohan: Sorrow and Laughter I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the…
Sorrow and Laughter
I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the connection between her and Gandalf. One of the things that stands out about Gandalf is his sense of humour, and in particular his enjoyment of laughing at himself. We see it at the Doors of Khazad-dûm; when he gives Merry an in-depth discussion of Saruman in response to a simple are-we-there-yet and Merry calls him on it; and plenty of other times. Indeed, one of the things he likes best about hobbits is their tendency to make it impossible to take yourself too seriously.
Humour, in the form of willingness to laugh at yourself, is the antithesis of pride, and pride is the root of most evil in Tolkien’s Legendarium. The characters who go bad in Tolkien’s works - Morgoth, Sauron, and to a lesser extent characters like Fëanor and Denethor - tend to be prideful ones who take themselves very seriously. Saruman, in the Unfinished Tales backstory, responds to Gandalf’s teasing with scorn and resentment.
So I’m trying to work through the connections between sorrow, compassion, humility, and humour. I think one of the things that the sorrow and compassion associated with Nienna gives to a person is “perspective”. In the words of the Valaquenta, “She does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.” Sorrow and compassion are tied to understanding how much larger the world is than you yourself, or the things/people/lands closest to you. It’s why Gandalf’s lack of fixed abode is so crucial to his escaping the failures of the other Istari - he values and seeks to understand everyone, not one realm. (This is made most apparent in two exchanges with Denethor, which could sustain a whole essay in themselves.)
And so it is the compassion associated with sorrow that produces a recognition of one’s littleness in the world, which frees a person from obsession with their own dignity and enables them enjoy laughing at themselves.
(This still feels rambly; there were some excellent additions to my Nienna post, so if anyone has something to add to this I’d be very appreciative!)
warrioreowynofrohan: Sorrow and Laughter I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the…
Sorrow and Laughter
I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the connection between her and Gandalf. One of the things that stands out about Gandalf is his sense of humour, and in particular his enjoyment of laughing at himself. We see it at the Doors of Khazad-dûm; when he gives Merry an in-depth discussion of Saruman in response to a simple are-we-there-yet and Merry calls him on it; and plenty of other times. Indeed, one of the things he likes best about hobbits is their tendency to make it impossible to take yourself too seriously.
Humour, in the form of willingness to laugh at yourself, is the antithesis of pride, and pride is the root of most evil in Tolkien’s Legendarium. The characters who go bad in Tolkien’s works - Morgoth, Sauron, and to a lesser extent characters like Fëanor and Denethor - tend to be prideful ones who take themselves very seriously. Saruman, in the Unfinished Tales backstory, responds to Gandalf’s teasing with scorn and resentment.
So I’m trying to work through the connections between sorrow, compassion, humility, and humour. I think one of the things that the sorrow and compassion associated with Nienna gives to a person is “perspective”. In the words of the Valaquenta, “She does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.” Sorrow and compassion are tied to understanding how much larger the world is than you yourself, or the things/people/lands closest to you. It’s why Gandalf’s lack of fixed abode is so crucial to his escaping the failures of the other Istari - he values and seeks to understand everyone, not one realm. (This is made most apparent in two exchanges with Denethor, which could sustain a whole essay in themselves.)
And so it is the compassion associated with sorrow that produces a recognition of one’s littleness in the world, which frees a person from obsession with their own dignity and enables them enjoy laughing at themselves.
(This still feels rambly; there were some excellent additions to my Nienna post, so if anyone has something to add to this I’d be very appreciative!)