Liuwe Westra

‘Not wholly true, not perfectly theocentric’ (lêste diel)

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Hoe wurket by Tolkien de ferlossing fan dizze minske? Hoe wurket de ‘eukatastrofê’ fan ‘e Ring, dy’t neffens de auteur in ôfbylding wêze mei fan ‘e grutte ‘eukatastrofê’ fan ‘e oerwinning fan Kristus? Yn The Lord of the Ring is dêr net folle oer te finen, en nammerste gelokkiger binne wy dat de auteur sels dêr it nedige oer sein hat. Hy skriuwt, sa’t wy al sjoen hawwe, dat it ferhaal fan Jezus Kristus in myte is dy’t God as auteur skreaun hat yn ‘e feiten fan ‘e skiednis. (Webster en Rogers (79) ferwize foar dit idee nei Thomas fan Aquino, Summa Theologica I qu. 1, art. 10:

Auctor sacrae scripturae est deus, in cuius potestate est ut non solum uoces ad significandum accommodet (quod etiam homo facere potest), set etiam ipsas res. Et ideo, cum in omnibus scientiis uoces significent, hoc habet proprium ista scientia quod ipsae res significatae per uoces etiam significant aliquid.)

De myte fan Kristus is dus wier bard, en tagelyk de heechste en wichtichste wierheid. Mar wat docht dy wierheid mei de minsken? By Tolkien wurdt inkeld sein wat de minsken mei dy wierheid dogge: oannimme of fersmite. Sa’t Lewis it ûnder wurden brocht, yn in brief in moanne nei syn nachtlik petear mei Tolkien:

Now the story of Christ is simply a true myth: a myth working on us in the same way as the others, but with this tremendous difference that it really happened: and one must be content to accept it in the same way, remembering that it is God’s myth where the others are men’s myths.’ (Pearce, 72)

Wat hjir folslein ferdwynt, dat is de noasje dat it ferhaal fan Kristus net inkeld in boadskip foar de minsken is (dat se oannimme of fersmite kinne), mar ek in oantrún om harren libbens te feroarjen, en in útnoeging om te betrouwen op de leafde fan God, dy’t syn Keninkryk wier meitsje sil. Just oer betrouwen heart men Tolkien in bitter lyts bytsje, en likemin oer de leafde fan God. It sil altyd in striidpunt bliuwe wat der krekt bard is mei Kristus syn dea en ferrizenis (as dat bard is), mar foar de measten dy’t leauwe tink ik dat dat momint yn ‘e tiid op ien of oare menier de skiednis sels feroare hat. By Tolkien krijt men de yndruk dat it hiele ferhaal fan Kristus net mear is as in boadskip, it sa oertsjûgjend mooglik oerbringen fan in wierheid: nije ynfermaasje, mar gjin nije saken. Wêr’t de minske by Tolkien fan ferlost wurde moat, is fan de ferlieding fan it kwea, net fan it kwea sels. De earste sûnde is by him dy fan ‘e grutskens en de begearte (Webster en Rogers, 84), wylst ik by Van Selms leard haw (Genesiskommentaar POT) dat de minske foel omdat er God syn sizzen net betroude en alles (goed en kwea) sels witte woe. De sûnde tsjin ‘e Hillige Geast is by Tolkien dy fan ‘e wanhope (Steedhâlder Denethor soan fan Ecthelion is net mear te rêden omdat er net leauwe kin dat de Kweade ea noch ferslein wurdt) (Webster en Rogers, 116), wylst ik út ‘e Evangeeljes de yndruk krij dat it by dy sûnde giet om it wegerjen diel út te meitsjen fan Gods Keninkryk (de man dy’t net feestfiere wol, sels net as er fan ‘e hoeken fan ‘e strjitte ôf meinommen is nei it keninklik peleis); en dy wanhope is it tsjindiel fan ‘e hope op it goede yn ‘e minske. (Webster en Rogers 124)

Tolkien hat sels in kear skreaun oer de midsieuske ridderromans dy’t de hoaske leafde ferhearlikje. Hy is dêr slim fan ûnder de bekoaring, mar fielt ek in ynderlik ferset: tinkbyldige goaden, lykas De Frou en De Leafde wurde dêr op in fuotstik set dat se net fertsjinje. Sa’n opfetting, neffens Tolkien, kin gefaarlik wêze omdat er ‘net alhiel wier en net folslein téosintrysk is’. Neffens my is dat ek de meast treffende kerakterisearring fan syn eigen wurk: wat er seit oer de minske is net alhiel wier, en wat er seit oer de ferlossing is net folslein teosintrysk.

Of dochs al? No’t ik dit hiele ferhaal in kear foar mysels útwurke haw, bekrûpt my dochs in lyts bytsje twivel. Oan ‘e iene kant haw ik befestiging fûn fan in gefoel dêr’t ik al lang mei omrûn. Tolkien syn apologeten lizze de master presys sa út, dat ik de swakke steden oanwize kin. Meistanners yn myn krityk haw ik ek fûn. Willem Barnard (Psalmgetier, s. 17) sjocht yn “de verbeeldingskracht van Tolkien met zijn Lord of the Rings of in de gestalte van Harry Potter die zijn duizenden verslaat” in utering fan ‘e krêft fan it mytelogyske dat yn alle minsken wennet, mar dat de timpel fan God ferrinnewearret (Ps. 74). De Tolkien-biograaf White docht de hoedene suggestje (it is yn Tolkien-lân flokken yn ‘e tsjerke) dat Tolkien ûnbewust of heal bewust in echt heidenske wrâld skepen hat: de wrâld fan syn jongste jierren doe’t syn mem noch net Roomsk-Katolyk wie en der gjin oare problemen wiene as dy fan it deistich brea. (White, 83-85) Myn teze kloppet ek mei it feit, dat Tolkien, doe’t er syn grutte myte ien kear foar de geast hie, foaral weromwurke hat mei ferhalen en materiaal oer earder tiden, mar dat wy neat fernimme oer in ferfolch. Ut The Lord of the Rings wei kinne jo wol by de Skepping útkomme – mar net by Abraham.

Mar soe it meskien ek noch sa wêze kinne dat Tolkien dit sels ek wist, of wa wit sels bedoelde? Uteinlings bedije de helden fan syn wrâld neat, en dat witte se. Aragorn moat stjerre, al mei er sels witte hoenear, en Frodo en Gandalf en Galadriel ferlitte – nei alle gedachten as lêsten – de kromme wrâld mei in skip dat it rjochte paad nei it lân fan ljocht noch wit te finen. Wat oerbliuwt is Midierde, dat wachtet op ferlossing. Ik bin de skriuwer tankber, dat er my dat sjen litten hat.

Njonken it wurk fan Tolkien sels haw ik brûkt:

  • Deborah WEBSTER ROGERS en Ivor A. ROGERS, J.R.R. Tolkien, Boston, 1980 (Twayne’s English Authors Series, 304)
  • Joseph Pearce, Tolkien: mens en mythe. Een literaire biografie, Kampen, 2001 (oersetting fan Tolkien: Man and Myth. A Literary Life, London, 1998)
  • Michael WHITE, Tolkien. A Biography, London, 2001

Twa priuwkes fan lieten, dêr’t it yn The Lord of the Rings fan optilt.
De Fryske oersettingen binne ferskynd op Farsk 86.

(1)
The leaves were long, the grass was green
  The hemlock-umbels tall and fair
And in the glade a light was seen
  Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinúviel was dancing there
  To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
  And in her raiment glimmering.
There Beren came from mountains cold,

  And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled
  He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
  And saw in wonder flowers of gold

Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
  And her hair like shadow following.
Enchantment healed his wary feet
  That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,

  And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
Through woven woods in Elvenhome
  She lightly fled on dancing feet,
And left him lonely still to roam
  In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound
  Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
Or music welling underground,
  In hidden hollows quavering.
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,

  And one by one with sighing sound
Whispering fell the beachen leaves
  In the wintry woodland wavering.
He sought her ever, wandering far
  Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,

By light of moon and ray of star
  In frosty heavens shivering.
Her mantle glinted in the moon,
  As on a hill-top high and far
She danced, and at her feet was strewn

  A mist of silver quivering.
When winter passed, she came again,
  And her song released the sudden spring.
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
  And melting water bubbling.

He saw the elven-flowers spring
  About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
  Upon the grass untroubling.
Again she fled, but swift he came,

  Tinúviel! Tinúviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
  And there she halted listening,
One moment stood she, and a spell
  His voice laid on her; Beren came,

And doom fell on Tinúviel
 That in his arms lay glistening.
As Beren looked into her eyes
  Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies

  He saw there mirrored shimmering.
Tinúviel the elven-fair,
  Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
  And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,
  O’er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
  And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,

  And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
  In the forest singing sorrowless.

(2)
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
            For many a year he had gnawed it near,
                        For meat was hard to come by.
                                    Done by! Gum by!

            In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone
                        And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on,
Said he to Troll. ‘Pray, what is yon?
            For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim,

                        As should be a-lyin’ in graveyard.
                                    Caveyard! Paveyard!
            This many a year has Tim been gone,
                        And I thought he were lyin’ in graveyard.’

‘My lad,’ said Troll, ‘this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
            Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o’ lead,
                        Afore I found his shinbone.                                     Tinbone! Thinbone!

            He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
                        For he don’t need his shinbone.’
Said Tom: ‘I don’t see why the likes o’ thee
Without axin’ leave should go makin’ free
            With the shank or the shin o’ my father’s kin;

                        So hand the old bone over!
                                    Rover! Trover!
            Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
                        So hand the old bone over!’

‘For a couple o’ pins,’ says Troll, and grins
‘I’ll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
            A bit o’ fresh meat will go down sweet!
                        I’ll try my teeth on thee now.
                                    Hee now! See now!

            I’m tired o’ gnawing old bones and skins;>
                        I’ve a mind to dine on thee now.’
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
            Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind

                        And gave him the boot to larn him.
                                    Warn him! Darn him!
            A bump o’ the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
                        Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
            As well set your boot to the mountains’ foot,
                        For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.
                                    Peel it! Heal it!

            Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan
                        And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom’s leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
            But Troll don’t care, and he’s still there

                        With the bone he boned from its owner.
                                    Doner! Boner!
            Troll’s old seat is still the same,
                        And the bone that he boned from its owner!

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