The Lord of the Rings embodies an "inherent morality,"  as Tolkien calls it, which derives largely from the traditions of Christian and epic poetry. Yet the trilogy is not explicitly religious, and is neither allegorical nor doctrinal. Tolkien well knows that the Dantesque form of Christian epic, wherein history effortlessly assumes the framework of dogma, cannot be successfully imitated in post-Romantic times. In Milton's Paradise Lost the sacramentalism fundamental to Dante's vision is already transformed. The true center of Milton's epic is a "paradise within," and the doctrinal framework which supports the poem is idiosyncratic, as we discover from The Christian Doctrine. For Milton, subjective experience, not a doctrinal formula of words, is the key to faith, and Mediaeval "realism," which assumes the participation of words in the extramental reality they signify, is not part of the consciousness which produced Paradise Lost.
What remain in Milton are, in generalized form, the great themes of the Christian epic: first, and most important, that true heroism is spiritual; also, that love is obedience and involves freedom; that faith and hope are based on charity; that providence directs the affairs of the world. The reader is repeatedly challenged to establish an attitude to these issues, and the vast shifts of time and spaceheavenly, infernal, past, future, pre-lapsarian, post-lapsarianare means of pressing the challenge upon his attention. In no other Christian poem does the real (inner) meaning so energetically parody the canonical orthodoxies of the external form.
By the time of Blake (who, significantly, saw Milton as a noble spirit except for his doctrine) the "paradise within" has found expression in language even further removed than Milton's from canonical orthodoxy. The Romantics primarily inherit Blake's vision, and so, basically, does Tolkien, essentially a post-Romantic like his friends C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, and Charles Williams. One consequence is that the principles of Christian epic are experienced in Tolkien not explicitly but as embodied themes, a map of values as in Paradise Lost, and without the traditional dogmatic theology which Milton's great poem is already in process of casting off. The trilogy is, significantly, set in the essentially inner realm of Faery, close to the world of dream and myth, where, Tolkien tells us, "primordial human desires "  are met and interpreted.
The archetypal flavor of Tolkien's description of Faery, together with his dream-like settings in Middle-earth, have readily evoked among critics the language and mind of Jung,  and, in a historical context, Jung is certainly a prime example in the twentieth century of the "interiorization" of spiritual experience so characteristic of post-Romantic religion. In this the psychoanalyst complements the writer of fairy stories, and, because he faces similar problems in similar language, Jung can also offer particular insights about the structure of Tolkien's work. The Lord of the Rings can be read, with surprising consistency, as an interior journey through the psyche as Jung describes it, and archetypal structures in the trilogy will be a central concern of this essay. Yet I wish to establish from the outset that a purely Jungian approach has limitations, for Tolkien at all times evaluates the archetypes, however implicitly, in light of the literary conventions of Christian epic. The Word, in a Christian sense, is a primary archetype which for Tolkien both spiritualizes and revalidates for man the extramental world of history and material extension. Only in carefully observed physical reality can the subcreation of Faery achieve, for Tolkien, its real enchantment, and open into the truth which he describes, in the old language, as Eucharistic.  The great pains taken with the historical background to Middle-earth are not without point. They save the book from becoming allegory, or a thin fantasy of "interior space," and in his "eucharistic" view of history and of the Word, Tolkien addresses again the key problems of the Christian epic in modern times: the possibilities of sacramentalism, and the relation of the archetypes of inner vision to Christian ordinances and heroic themes.
The group of friends to whom Tolkien first read The Lord of the Rings, the so-called Inklings, found Jung temperamentally attractive, though they also regarded him with a certain suspicion. C.S. Lewis avows that he is "enchanted" by Jung, and has, on occasion, "slipped into" a Jungian manner of criticism.  He admits that Maud Bodkin, the pioneer critic of Jungian archetypal patterns in literature, has exerted considerable influence on him.  Owen Barfield praises Jung for understanding the spiritual nature of consciousness and its evolution: the Jungian "collective unconscious" and appeal to myth are much-needed antidotes to twentieth century materialism which threatens to make an object of man himself.  On the negative side, Lewis thinks that Jung's explanation of "primordial images" itself awakens a primordial image of the first water: Jung's limitation is that he uses a myth to explain a myth.  Barfield feels, more important for this argument, that in Jung the "Spiritual Hierarchies"  have withdrawn from the world, and exist, interiorized, within the individual will and too much cut off from the extramental world. It is important not to put the words of Lewis and Barfield into Tolkien's mouth (he was difficult to influence as a bandersnatch, according to Lewis),  yet Tolkien at least shared the interests and temperament of his friends.  Certainly, the reader of his essay on fairy stories cannot easily avoid the Jungian flavor of several of Tolkien's key theories. He describes Faery in relation to dream, stating that in both "strange powers of the mind may be unlocked" (13). He talks of the encounter in fairy stories with "certain primordial human desires" (13), and claims the stories are "plainly not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability" (40). He talks of a "Cauldron of Story" which waits "for the great figures of Myth and History" (29). These are added like fresh pieces to a stock which has been simmering from the beginnings of story-telling, that is, of the human mind itself. In the essay on Beowulf, Tolkien especially appreciates the balance and "opposition of ends and beginnings, the progress from youth to old age in the hero, and the satisfaction that comes from perceiving the "rising and setting"  of a life.
We can easily enough feel here the typical Jungian insistence on dream and fantasy,  the theory of a collective unconscious which (like Tolkien's cauldron) contains archetypes stirred into activity by the artist, and the theory of transformation in the individual psyche, whereby beginnings and ends are balanced in a successful human life. But more important, Tolkien's theory finds full embodiment in The Lord of the Rings. The trilogy is set in Faery, in this case the imaginary world of Middle-earth, at a time near the beginnings of man's ascendancy in the history of the world. Middle-earth is often dreamlike: a world of shifting contours and of magic, of nightmarish fear and exquisite ethereal beauty. Helpful and treacherous animals work for the powers of good and evil, and landscapes become sentient embodiments of human fears and desires. It is a short step to the appearance of nature spirits, like Tom Bombadil, or to the magic of the Elves, and, as we move closer to those who possess more than human wisdom and power, the contours of time and space themselves begin to blur. Although controlled by the narrative art and by basic structural oppositions such as those between light and dark, good and evil, the story moves basically in a world where forms and images blend and flow and interpenetrate, and where the eye of the beholder determines fear and terror, beauty and glory. All this has the very quality of that "interior space"  which Barfield names as Jung's special province.
For Jung, certainly, fairy stories and dreams are characteristically inhabited by helpful and treacherous animals and monsters, and landscapes, especially when they involve woods and mountains, are favorite representations of the unconscious.  Jung also talks of a common figure, the "vegetation numen,"  king of the forest, who is associated with wood and water in a manner which recalls Tom Bombadil. Magic too is important, and Jung explains how "the concentration and tension of psychic forces have something about them which always looks like magic,"  He stresses also a "contamination" of images, by which he means a tendency to overflowing contours"a melting down of images."  This, says Jung, may look like distortion and can be terrifying, but can also be a process of assimilation and a source of great beauty and inspiration. His perception applies precisely to the viewpoint technique of The Lord of the Rings: "The melting process is therefore either something very bad or something highly desirable according to the standpoint of the observer."  Jung also points to certain characteristic formal elements in dreams and fairy stories, such as "duality," "the opposition of light and dark," and "rotation (circle, sphere),"  but insists that they should not be considered apart from the complex flowing energy of the psyche. Moral choices are not simply a matter of black or white. Jung stresses "the bewildering play of antinomies"  which contribute to higher awareness. Good may be produced by evil, and possibly lead to it. This process, which Jung calls "enantiodromia,"  is also of central importance in the art of Tolkien: a broad opposition of light and dark, and of good and evil, becomes confused in the trilogy as we enter the minds of individuals in process of finding their way on the quest. Though Gollum bates light and loves shade, Frodo's relation to Gollum is extremely complex, and throughout the trilogy the minds of the men in particular are continually ambivalent.
That Jung and Tolkien isolate such similar motifs from fairy stories, dreams, fantasy, and myth, need hardly be surprising, but in The Lord of the Rings the inner drama corresponds also with particular fidelity to the details of the psychic process which Jung calls "individuation." This is, basically, the "realization of the whole man"  achieved in a balanced and fulfilled life when "consciousness and the unconscious, are linked together in a living relation."  The process involves a journey to the Self, which Jung describes as "not only the center" of a person's psyche but also "the circumference which embraces both conscious and unconscious."  Characteristically, the Self is represented in dreams and mythology as a mandalaa square within a circle, or circle within a square, or in figures which are spherical or contain the idea of quaternity,  representing wholeness.
Jung insists that individuation, or Selfhood, is not mere ego-consciousness.  As the short-sighted ego responds to the demands of inner growth, the way is indicated by representations of archetypes, those primordial and recurring images in human experience which express the basic structures of the psyche, and which become increasingly numinous, impressive, and dangerous as they emerge from the deeper levels of the unconscious. First, and nearest to the surface, so that we can become aware of it by reflection, is the shadow. The shadow is the "personal unconscious" and, among the archetypes, is the "easiest to experience."  It represents the elements which a person represses as incompatible with his chosen ideal"for instance, inferior traits of character and other incompatible tendencies."  The shadow is ambiguousit contains morally reprehensible tendencies, but can also display good qualities, such as normal instincts which have been repressed but "are needed by consciousness."  In dreams, it is represented as a figure of the same sex as the dreamer, and, in accord with its ambiguous status, may be a threat which follows him, or a guide. It turns dangerous when ignored or misunderstood. 
Further from consciousness is the anima/animus archetype. These are representations of the feminine side of a man's unconscious, and the masculine side of a woman's, respectively. The anima (the more important for Tolkien) is, like the shadow, ambivalent. She is both the nourishing and the destructive mother.  On the one hand, she is Dante's Beatrice, the Virgin Mary, the Muses who inspire man to create, the dream girl of popular fantasy and song. On the other hand she is a witch, poisonous and malevolent, or a Siren who, however beautiful, lures a man to his death and destruction.  For Jung, "the animus and the anima should function as a bridge, or a door, leading to the images of the collective unconscious." 
More profound, and often presented with the anima as friend or protector is the archetype of the hero. He is often represented in a dangerous situation or an a difficult quest, which "signifies the potential anticipation of an individuation process which is approaching wholeness."  The hero often has an aura about him of the supernatural, which offsets his vulnerability, another essential trait, for he is both semi-divine and child. "This paradox . . . runs through his whole destiny like a red thread. He can cope with the greatest perils, yet, in the end, something quite insignificant is his undoing."  The hero archetype is often accompanied by strange and numinous events: "dragons, helpful animals, and demons; also the Wise Old Man . . . all things which in no way touch the boundaries of everyday. The reason for this is that they have to do with the realization of a part of the personality which has not yet come into existence but is still in the process of becoming." 
The deepest archetype on the journey towards the Self is the figure Jung mentions above in relation to the hero, namely the Old Wise Man, a helpful figure who, "when the hero is in a hopeless and desperate situation . . . can extricate him."  He is the magician, the Guru, a personification of wisdom. He seems not to be bound with time, and is strongly endowed with numinous power, for instance, of magic. Also, "apart from his cleverness, wisdom, and insight, the old man" is "notable for his moral qualities."  But he, like the other archetypes, is also an ambivalent figure. He is like Merlin,  and in him the enantiodromia of good and evil can appear most paradoxically.
In The Lord of the Rings the theme of a quest involving a ring, symbol of binding and wholeness which must be preserved from the powers of darkness and evil by the powers of light and goodness, suggests the beginnings of a typical journey towards individuation: the promise of a "true conjunctio" which involves the threat of dissolution, or "false conjunctio." Within the quest, Frodo, at the beginning, is childlike, and must. endure the terrors of monsters, dragons, and the underworld. Aragorn, his companion, who equally undergoes such trials, is of strange and royal origins, protector of a noble lineage, and a semi-divine figure with the magic power of healing. Frodo and Aragorn represent different aspects of the heroFrodo his childlikeness, Aragorn his nobility and power, and each must support and learn from the other. The Hobbit, for good reason, as we shall see, receives foremost attention, and the story is in a special sense his. As it proceeds, Frodo puts off more and more the childlike ways of the Shire, and assumes the lineaments of heroism, acquiring, at the end, a truly numinous quality. Moreover, as his understanding deepens, Frodo moves through a process equivalent to Jung's individuation, which is charted by the main action of the book. He encounters the shadow (Gollum), anima (Galadriel), and Old Wise Man (Gandalf). Each archetype has a good and bad side, the good leading to understanding and fellowship, the bad to death, isolation, and the loss of identity or Self. So Galadriel is opposed by Shelob, the heroes by the Ringwraiths, and Gandalf by the evil magician Saruman. Gollum is, by nature, ambivalent. He is the shadow, or personal unconscious, and we will deal with him first.
At the beginning, Frodo does not realize his shadow personality, or that he is being pursued by Gollum. He knows only a vague uncomfortable feeling which increases as the story develops. As the fellowship sets out for Lothlorien, Frodo feels "he had heard something, or thought he had. As soon as the shadows had fallen about them and the road behind was dim, he had heard again the quick patter of feet."  The others do not notice. Soon after, Frodo is startled by "a shadowy figure," which "slipped round the trunk of the tree and vanished" (1,360). Again, he alone sees Gollum who has been pursuing the ring, moving in the dark because he fears light.
Significantly, Gollum is of the same race and sex as Frodo, which, for a shadow figure, is appropriate. He is a hobbit, fallen into the power of the ring and debased to a froglike, emaciated, and underground creature of primitive cunning and instinct. He is certainly a threat, and one which Frodo must learn to acknowledge as representing a certain potentiality in his own being. To ignore the shadow, as Jung indicates, is to risk inflation of the ego.  The relationship between Frodo and the repulsive Gollum therefore must become one of mutual acknowledgment, even if disapproved by others. Sam, to his own consternation, sees the peculiar link between the two: they "were in some way akin and not alien: they could reach one another's minds" (II, 225). So Frodo insists on unbinding Gollum and trusting his promise, and the shadow, ever ambivalent, becomes a guide, though without ceasing to be dangerous. Gollum leads Frodo first to Shelob's lair, but also saves him at the last moment from a fatal inflation of pride which would mean the destruction of the quest: "But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring. . . . So let us forgive him!" (Ill, 225) .
Frodo has confronted Gollum before the party arrives at Lothlorien, but only after the encounter with Galadriel can he bind and release the shadow. The meeting with Galadriel is an overwhelming experience for the entire company and not only for Frodo. Although she deals more with him than with the others, she is not bound to Frodo in such a particular way as Gollum. Her significance is less in terms of the personal unconscious than the collective unconscious. She is a striking representative of the anima, a figure which, Jung says, is often "fairy like" or "Elfin,"  and Galadriel is, indeed, an Elf. She is also a bridge to the deeper elements of the psyche, and can reveal hidden contents in the souls of the company. "None save Legolas and Aragorn could long endure her glance" (1,372) as she shows to each one the dangers of the quest and the personal weakness each brings to it. In her mirror she shows to Frodo "parts of a great history in which he had become involved" (1, 379), and he responds with awe and terror. The numinous power characteristic of the anima almost overwhelms him, so that he even offers her the ring. Galadriel replies in words which clearly indicate the dangers of fixation on the anima, and warns of the anima's destructive aspect:
You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night. . . . All shall love me and despair! (1,381).
Frodo instead must use Galadriel's knowledge and wisdom to further the quest: she is a bridge to the darkness of Mordor, to which the hero must still journey. So Frodo carries with him the influence of Galadriel's fairy-like, timeless, and magically radiant beauty, and it serves to protect him. Symbolically, she gives him a phial of light to bear into the darkness. The light not only shows Frodo the way, but helps him against the Ringwraiths, and, most important, enables him to face Shelob.
If Galadriel is the anima in its beneficent aspect, Shelob the spider-woman is the destructive anima who often poisons to kill. Gollum talks of a mysterious "she" who may help him win back the ring, and he means Shelob"all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness" (II, 332). As Frodo meets her, he holds up the light: "'Galadriel!' he called, and gathering his courage he lifted up the Phial once more" (II, 330). Galadriel's light and Shelob's darkness, the principles of life and death, of nourishment and destruction, contest for Frodo who must meet them boththe anima in both aspects, beneficent and malevolent.
Other anima figures throughout The Lord of the Rings present a similar appeal to that of Galadriel. Mainly we think of Arwen, another Elf, whose "loveliness in living thing Frodo had never seen before nor imagined in his mind" (1, 239). She is destined to marry Aragorn, and their Limon represents the "syzygy,"  the ideal union of anima and animus in which, says Jung, "they form a divine pair."  The Self is often represented by the marriage of such a "divine, royal, or otherwise distinguished couple."  Less fortunate than Arwen, however, is Eowen, whose love for Aragorn cannot be reciprocated, with the result that she becomes the victim of her own animus. When Aragorn leaves her, as he must, Eowen becomes, in disguise, the warrior Dernhelf, who "desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle" (IV, 242). Eowen, in Jungian terms, is possessed by the negative animus (often represented as a death-demon)  which in this case drives her towards suicide. Such a possession often results, says Jung, in "a transformation of personality" which "gives prominence to those traits which are characteristic of the opposite sex.  Only through the love of Faramir does Eowen change"or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her" (III, 243).
The heroic figures of The Lord of the Rings are, as we have said, Aragorn and Frodo. One is a king in exile, preserver of a noble lineage, who passes through the paths of the dead, fights a crucial turn in the epic battle, and proclaims a new dispensation. The hero, as Jung says, is a "greater man . . . semi-divine by nature," who meets "dangerous adventures and ordeals,"  and encounters the Old Wise Man. Significantly, the numinous quality of the semi-divine hero is not immediately obvious in Aragorn who appears first as the ranger Strider, suspected by the party and by us. Only when we pass more deeply into the quest do we learn of his noble lineage, of his destiny and his power of healing. He grows in our minds in stature as he looks into the magic palantir, passes through the paths of the dead, and is received, finally, as king. Aragorn is very much the traditional quest hero, but we observe him, primarily, from the outside.
Frodo, though his birth is peculiar among hobbits, is not a born hero like Aragorn, and we observe him more fully from within, often sharing his point of view. As the story opens, we find in Frodo the vulnerability of the child which, according to Jung, often compensates the hero's powers. But Frodo gradually develops away from his early naiveté, from the diffident hobbit wondering why he was chosen and thinking to destroy the ring with a hammer (1, 70). Growth into higher consciousness is painful, yet, as Frodo carries the burden his power increases, and as he passes through the dark experiences which lead to the Council of Elrond, the numinous aura and magic of the hero archetype adhere increasingly to him. He finds he can see more clearly in the dark. In Galadriel's mirror he sees the depths of the history in which he is involved, and becomes the bearer of the magic light into the perilous realms. Slowly he acquires wisdom and a nobility comparable to that of Aragorn, so that, as we accompany Frodo's development and participate in it, we come to understand Aragorn himself more fully. As the tale ends, Frodo has achieved a heroic sanctity verging on the otherworldly.
The heroes throughout The Lord of the Rings are opposed by the Ringwraiths. As each archetype has a negative aspect, so the hero, says Jung, is especially threatened by dissolution "under the impact of the collective forces of the psyche." The characteristic challenge is from "the old, evil power of darkness"  which threatens to overwhelm the hero and the self-identity he is striving to bring about. The power of Sauron the Dark Lord is exactly such an old and evil force, and in The Lord of the Rings his representatives, the negative counterparts of the heroes, are the Black Riders. The menace they present balances perfectly the power that emanates from the heroic Aragorn, while their dissolution in Sauron's old and evil darkness, representing the loss of Self, is indicated by the fact that the black riders have no faces.
The heroes must resist such loss of Self and grow towards wisdom, a spiritual quality represented by the profound archetype of the Old Wise Man. He appears in the trilogy primarily as Gandalf. More mysterious than the heroes, Gandalf's part in the quest is often beyond the reach of the story, and his knowledge remains unfathomable. When we first meet him, he seems more an old clown than a powerful magician. The interpretation of wisdom as foolishness is a traditional error of fools. In this case, it reflects the naiveté of the comfortable hobbits: Gandalf's "fame in the Shire was due mainly to his skill with fires, smokes, and lights. . . . To them he was just one of the 'attractions' at the Party" (1, 33). But Gandalf, like Aragorn, grows in stature as we, like Frodo, learn more about him. He is continually ahead of the quest, exercising a strange, almost providential control. He reproves Frodo for many mistakes, and seems to know the whole story in detail, even though it happened in his absence. "You seem to know a great deal already" (I, 231), says Frodo. We do not question Gandalf's knowledge, but believe simply that its source is beyond our ken.
Gandalf has a knack also for appearing when he is needed. At the ford he sends a flood in the nick of time as Frodo's will fades. His wisdom leads the armies to Mordor, and circumvents the trap set by the enemy who possesses Frodo's clothes. His eagles rescue Frodo and Sam at the last moment, and in the final episode of the story he makes sure (though we do not know how he knows) that Merry and Pippin will accompany Sam on his ride home, after Frodo departs for the Havens: " 'For it will be better to ride back three together than one alone' " (III, 310). Here Gandalf provides, as he does throughout, for the deeper need, and there is a touch of magic in his doing it.
For Jung, the Old Wise Man, as we have seen, appears especially when the hero is in trouble: "In a situation where insight, understanding, good advice, determination, planning, etc., are needed but cannot be mustered on ones own resources."  He often, moreover, adopts "the guise of a magician,"  and is, essentially, a spirit archetype.  Thus, the Old Man is sometimes represented by a " 'real' spirit, namely, the ghost of one dead."  Tolkien, interestingly, has described Gandalf as "an angel,"  and we are to believe that he really died in the struggle with Balrog, reappearing as Gandalf the White, as embodied spirit, and a figure of great numinous power. Also, the Old Wise Man "gives the necessary magical talisman,"  which, in Gandalfs case, is the ring itself.
The Old Man, however, has a wicked aspect too. Just as Galadriel has her Shelob, and the heroes their Ringwraiths, so Gandalf has his antitype, the magician Saruman. They meet on equal ground, and between them the great struggle for self or dissolution of self is once again fought: "Like, and yet unlike" (II, 183), says Girnii, pointedly, as he observes the two at Isengard. Their contest is based on a symbolism of light: Saruman is at first White, and Gandalf, as the lesser magician, is gray. But Gandalf becomes white as Saruman falls to the powers of darkness and his robes become multi-colored, "woven of all colors, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered" (1, 272). Sarumans multi-colors, like the facelessness of the riders, indicates a dissolution of identity. White is whole: fragmented, it is also dissipated.
The final, and most elusive, archetype is that of the Self. Perhaps Tolkiens trilogy as a work of art which is more than the sum of its parts is the most satisfactory representation of this archetype, for the whole meaning is activated within the reader, who alone can experience its completeness. But the most effective mediator between the ordinary reader and "whole" world of Middle-earth, the character who is in the end closest to ourselves and who also must return to ordinary life, is Sam Gamgee. Sam has become, in the process of the story. Samwise, but he is less removed from ourselves than Frodo or the other characters. As he leaves, Frodo says to Sam: "You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do" (III, 309). The commendation of Sams wholeness, and the directive to return to the ordinary world, bearing that wholeness with him, is also a directive to the reader: ripeness is all. But such wisdom as Sam achieves is not easily come by, as the entire book indicates, and there is no case for critical denunciation of Tolkien on the grounds that his hobbits are simplistic or escapist. The shire is not a haven, and the burden of the tale is that there are no havens in a world where evil is a reality. It you think you live in one, you are probably naive like the early Frodo, and certainly vulnerable.
The archetypal patterns which we have examined indicate the extent to which the trilogy can be read as a contemporary exploration of the "interior space" analyzed in such novel terms in this century by Jung. Like Barfield and Lewis, however, Tolkien assumes a firmer stance before the archetypes than Jung. Lewiss criticism, that Jung offers a myth to explain a myth, can be met only by assertion: there is a myth which is true, and fundamental. Following such a line of thought, Tolkien insists that successful fairy stories give a glimpse of truth which he describes as eucharistic. The typical "Eucatastroplie," the "turn" at the end of a good fairy story, has the sudden effect of a miraculous grace and gives a "fleeting glimpse of Joy,"  a momentary participation in the state that man most desires. This joy, says Tolkien, is "a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality of truth" (71). In this sense, the Christian story has "entered History and the primary world," and in it the "desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Mans history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation" (71-72). In Western culture, the Christian story has thus contributed, and also transformed, the Cauldron of Story which Tolkien has discussed earlier in his essay. The basic Christian ingredient substantially alters the flavor of the entire simmering stock.
There are two significant implications in Tolkiens theory. First, the Christian influence on great poetry is profound, and particularly on the epic, which addresses itself especially to the values by which men should live. Tolkiens essay on Beowulf indicates his appreciation of this fact. Second, the insistence on an ideal eucharistic participation of the fantasy in the real world leads to a view of art analogous to the Christian Incarnation of the Word. In the greatest story, history and archetype interpenetrate. So in the fairy story, which typically activates the archetypes, historical verisimilitude is of the utmost importance. We must accept that the land of Faery is "true" before it can fully affect us.
The Lord of the Rings, therefore, as a fairy story based on these premises, is more than the inner psychodrama which a purely Jungian interpretation suggests, in which outer object is offset by inner, and in which a fairy tale typically depicts, as Jung says, "the unconscious processes that compensate the Christian, conscious situation."  For Tolkien, the fairy tale participates, if it is good, in the Christian, conscious situation, and in the primary archetype of the Word made Incarnate from which that Christian consciousness derives. Tolkien faces, therefore, the crucial problem for the Christian writerthe problem faced first by Milton in a modern contextof formulating a vision in which Christian assertion, history, and imagination can coinhere. For Tolkien, the "paradise within" must, ideally, be raised to fulfillment in the primary world of history, and this implies a sacramental, if non-doctrinal, view of reality. But it does not imply any simple reversion to medievalism: Tolkien does not write allegory, which assumes a corporate acceptance of dogmatic formulae based on a "realist" epistemology. The morality of his story is, as we have seen, implicit. His theory does, however, help to explain the inordinate pains spent on the appendices, the background history, the landscape, names, traditions, annals and the entire sense of a "real world" of Middle-earth. History and the "primary world" are more fully rendered in Tolkien than in Milton, and, essentially, they mark the difference between a eucharistic and a non-sacramental view of the world. Yet the great themes of the Christian epic, as we have named them for Milton, remain implicit as a map of values in much the same form in The Lord of the Rings as in Paradise Lost. First, and most important, is the concept of Christian heroism, a spiritual quality which depends on obedience rather than prowess or personal power. Second, heroism is basic to the meaning of love. Third, charity, or love, is the foundation of faith and hope. And last, Providence directs the affairs of the world.
Tolkien first broaches the question of Christian heroism in the essay on Beowulf and in the "ofermod" appendix to The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelms Son. Echoing a tradition of Christian thought as old as Augustines De Doctrina, Tolkien points out that Beowulfs fame is "the noble pagans desire for the merited praise of the noble."  Consequently, his "real trust was in his own might,"  and Beowulf does not understand heaven or true "fame" in the eyes of God. This attitude leads only to excess, and drives Beowulf towards chivalry by which, when he dies, he hopes to be remembered. The possible ill consequences of such chivalry are also evident in Beorhtnoth, "hero" of the Battle of Maldon. In allowing the invading Northmen to cross the ford for a fair fight when they were in fact trapped, Beorhtnoth "was chivalrous rather than strictly heroic."  The most grievous consequence of his action was that he sacrificed "all the men most dear to him"  in his own desire for glory. The truly heroic situation, says Tolkien, was that of Beorhtnoths soldiers. "In their situation heroism was superb. Their duty was unimpaired by the error of their master." Consequently, "it is the heroism of obedience and love not of pride or willfulness that is the most heroic and the most moving." 
The Christian distinction between true and false heroism is thus already at work in Beowulf and The Battle of Maldon, and certainly in Miltons Paradise Lost true Christian heroism based on obedience is at odds with mere glory won in deeds of arms. The feats of war in Paradise Lost, especially the War in Heaven, are best read as a parody of the futility of epic battles. The true heroism depends not on the acclaim of men, but on the love of God, as Adam must discover. The theme is central also in The Lord of the Rings, and it helps to explain why we are closer to Frodo and Sam than to Aragorn. The hobbits are more purely heroic, in that there is nothing chivalrous about them, and their heroism of obedience burns brightest because it is often without any hope of yielding renown or good name among men. Aragorn, true, is heroic, but he is chivalrous as well, and his fame is significantly reinforced by the acclaim of men. In total contrast is Sam Gamgee, whose part is least publicly acclaimed of all, but who, in the sense in which we are now using the word, is especially heroic. His unfailing devotion to Frodo is exemplary, and here, again, Sam is a key link in bringing the meaning of the book to the reader, the everyman who admires great deeds but wonders what his own part might be in important events which seem well enough wrought without him.
The spiritual interpretation of heroism is the most significant Christian modification of the epic tradition, and contains in essence the other motifs which we have named. Their presence in The Lord of the Rings will therefore be indicated more briefly. First, if Tolkien is careful to show his most moving moments of heroism in context of obedience to transcendent principles, he is also careful to point out that the most binding love derives directly from such obedience. The marriages at the end of the trilogy are clearly possible because the quest has been faithfully completed. Also, among the company, the strongest fellowship develops from a shared dedication to the quest, and obedience to directives from the higher sources of knowledge. The ensuing fellowship is strong enough to break even the age-old enmities between Dwarves and Elves, as displayed for instance by the intense loyalty the Dwarf Girnii feels for the Elf Galadriel. The fellowship breaks only when the bond of obedience is also broken, as it is by Boromir, whose pride and lust for personal power are the epitome of false heroism.
The love of Sam for Frodo is the most consistent, and the most heroic, of all such relationships in the trilogy, and in it the ancillary theme that love subsumes faith and hope, becomes plain. Though Frodo does not waver in faith until the very last moment at the Cracks of Doom, as he and Sam face the plain of Gorgoroth, Frodo loses hope: "I am tired, weary, I havent a hope left" (III, 195). Soon after he states, even more defeated: "I never hoped to get across. I cant see any hope of it now" (III, 201). Finally, Frodos hope dissolves entirely, and he tells Sam: "Lead me! As long as youve got any hope left. Mine is gone" (III, 206). Gradually, Frodos physical power is affected and Sam carries him on his back. The story is, at this point, almost allegorical, as Sams charity sustains his masters hope and faith. And there is no doubt about the contribution of Sams heroic love to the success of the quest.
In the last resort, heroic obedience based on love of God and fellow man must also involve faith in Gods providence, so that events which may appear undeserved or random can be accepted as part of a greater design. The wiser a man is, the more deeply he can see into that design. So Gandalf, for example, knows that Frodo and Gollum may meet. He also guesses that Aragorn has used the palantir, and his knowledge, more than coincidence, depends on his perception of the design in events. On the other hand, those characters who are less wise are more at the mercy of unexplained events. Merry and Pippin, for example, do not at all know that their "chance" meeting with the Ents is to cause the offensive which overwhelms Isengard. Early in the story, we are directed to the importance of the complex relations of chance and providence by Frodos question to Tom Bombadil: "Was it just chance that brought you at that moment?" Tom replies, enigmatically: "Just chance brought me then, if chance you call it. It was no plan of mine, though I was waiting for you" (1, 137). Examples could be multiplied, but Tolkien plainly enough indicates throughout The Lord of the Rings that on some profound level a traditional providence is at work in the unfolding of events. And in a world where men must die, where there are no havens, where the tragedy of exile is an enduring truth, the sense, never full, always intermittent, of a providential design, is also a glimpse of joy.
This essay has been centrally concerned with the analogy between Tolkien and Jung, but it is not simply an "archetypal" assessment of The Lord of the Rings. That the trilogy seems to correspond so fully to the Jungian classification certainly redounds to the mutual credit of Tolkien the teller of tales that he should intuit the structure of the psyche so well, and to Jung the analyst that he should classify so accurately the elusive images of the poets. For both, man participates in the spiritual traditions of his culture, and in a period of history such as the present the Christian expression of such a participation must be an especially private and "inner" one. Tolkien, in his theory, is aware of this, and an explication of the trilogy in terms of Jung provides some insights about the structure and dynamics of Tolkiens epic of "interior space." Yet Tolkien believes that his "inner" world partakes of spiritual truth which has found a special embodiment in history: the Word, as Archetype, was made flesh. Consequently, Tolkien insists on the "real" truth of Faerie, and his eucharistic understanding of literature causes him, in The Lord of the Rings, to expend great pains on the historical and linguistic background to Middle-earth. We must believe that it is true, and its truth must involve history, as well as the great themes deriving, in literature, from the fundamentally important Christian story which is basic as both archetype and history. We find the morality of the story not in doctrinal formulations which are the staples of allegory, but in the traditional and implicit motifs of Christian heroism, obedience, charity, and providence. Just as, historically, the simmering stock in the cauldron of story is substantially flavored by the Christian ingredient, so are the archetypes in The Lord of the Rings
Patrick Grant, a specialist in Renaissance literature, teaches English at the University of Victoria, British Columbia.
 J, R. R. Tolkien, "On Fairy Stories," The Tolkien Reader (New York: Ballantine, 1966), p. 16.
 Ibid., p. 13.
 Many critics notice the point, though there is no systematic analysis. See J. S. Ryan, Tolkien: Cult or Culture (Annidale, New South Wales: Univ. of New England, 1969), ch. X, "Middle-Earth and the Archetypes," pp. 153-61
 "Fairy Stories," pp. 14, 68.
 "Psycho-Analysis and Literary Criticism," ed. Walter Hooper, Selected Literary Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), pp. 296, 297.
 Ibid. Also, "Hamlet: The Prince or the Poem," Selected Literary Essays, p. 104.
 Saving the Appearances: A Study in Idolatry (London: Faber, 1957), pp. 133-34
 "Psycho-Analysis," p. 299.
 Romanticism Comes of Age (Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1944), pp. 193, 202.
 Letter to Charles Moorman, 15 May, 1959, ed. W, H. Lewis, Letters of C. S. Lewis (London: Geoffrey Bles, 1966), p. 287.
 There is a good deal of Barfield in "Fairy Stories," for instance the passage on the emergence of adjectives, with the criticism of Max Muller (p. 21), and the insistence on "Participation" (p. 23).
 "Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics," ed. Donald K. Fry, The Beowulf Poet: A Collection of Critical Essays (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1968), p. 34.
 Tolkien stresses more firmly than Jung the distinction between fairy-story and dream: they are connected, but the story-teller is in conscious control of his narrative. See "Fairy Stories," pp. 13-14.
 Romanticism Comes of Age, p. 193.
 "The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairy Tales," ed. Sir Herbert Read, Michael Fordham, Gerhard Adier, trans. R. F. C. Hull, The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Vol. 9, pt. I, pp. 231, 233, 235.
 Ibid., p. 226.
 Ibid., p. 219.
 Mysterium Conjunctionis, Works, vol. 14, p. 325.
 "On the Nature of the Psyche," Works, Vol. 8, p. 203.
 "The Spirit in Fairy Tales," Works, Vol. 9, pt. I, p. 239.
 Ibid., p. 215.
 "On the Nature of Dreams," Works, Vol 8, p. 292. 24,
 Jolande Jacobi, The Psychology of C. G. Jung (London: Routledge, 1962), p. 102.
 Psychology and Alchemy, Works, Vol. 12, p. 41.
 Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, Works, Vol. 7, p. 175.
 "On the Nature of the Psyche," Works, vol. 8, p. 266.
 Aion, ed. Violet S. de Laszlo, Psyche and Symbol (New York: Anchor 1958), p. 6.
 29. "Conscious, Unconscious, and Individuation," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, p. 285.
 Man and His Symbols, ed. C. G. Jung (New York: Dell, 1968), p. 178.
 Ibid., p. 182.
 Aion.p. II.
 Ibid., p. 14. See also Man and His Symbols, pp. 188-89.
 Memories, Dreams, and Reflections, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (New York: Vintage, 1965), p. 392.
 "The Psychology of the Child Archetype," Works, Vol. 9, pt. I, p. 166.
 Ibid., p. 167.
 "On the Nature of Dreams," Works, vol. 8, p. 293.
 Works, vol. 9, pt. I, pp. 217-18.
 Ibid., p. 225.
 Ibid., p. 227.
 The Lord of the Rings (London: George Alien and Unwin, 1966), 1, 351. All further references are cited in the text.
 Psychology and Religion: West and East, Works, vol. II, p. 341.
 See Man and His Symbols, p. 191; Jacobi, The Psychology of C. G. Jung, p. 117.
 Aioil, p. 9.
 Ibid., p. 20.
 Man and His Symbols, p. 216 .
 Ibid., p. 202.
 "Concerning Rebirth," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, p. 124.
 "On the Nature of Dreams," Works, vol. 8, p. 293.
 "Concerning Rebirth," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, pp. 146-47.
 "The Spirit in Fairy Tales," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, p. 216.
 Ibid., p. 217.
 Ibid., p. 215.
 Edmund Fuller, "The Lord of the Hobbits," ed. Neil D. Isaacs and Rose A. Zimbardo, Tolkien and the Critics (Notre Dame: Univ. of Notre Dame Press, 1968), p. 35.
 "The Spirit in Fairy Tales," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, p. 220.
 "Fairy Stories," p. 68.
 "The Spirit in Fairy Tales," Works, vol. 9, pt. I, p. 251.
 "Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics," p. 44.
 Ibid., p. 52.
 The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelms Son, in The Tolkien Reader, p. 21
 Ibid., p. 22.
Copyright of Cross Currents is the property of Association for Religion & Intellectual Life and its content may not be copied without the copyright holders express written permission except for the print or download capabilities of the retrieval software used for access. This content is intended solely for the use of the individual user. Source: Cross Currents, Winter 1973, pp 365-380.