This is the third in a three part series. Part One may be read here. (The first part deals with Memory. Part Two, which considers Matter, is still in the works.  I am sticking to the order of conception, not the order of posting, in numbering this series.) In this post, I want to make a few remarks about how language, particularly in its stylistic or aesthetic aspect, relates to reality. I will do this by way of briefly indicating how Middle Earth is rooted in language, and how language functions in that world. This bit will be extremely rudimentary (relative to the depth and complexity of the subject), but should at least illustrate the point I hope to make; namely, that translations of biblical and liturgical texts should be beautiful and traditional, even if this is accompanied (or constituted) by a certain strangeness, or unfamiliarity, as compared to contemporary and common forms of speech.

With the advent of the Book of Common Prayer (1549), followed by the Douay-Rheims (1582) and the Authorized (“King James”) (1611) versions of the Bible, and, much more recently, in the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council, the religious sensibilities and sense of innumerable Christians have been greatly informed, for better or worse, by the English language, in one or more of its many permutations. Of course, I am far from denying the existence of pre-Reformation religious literature composed in, or translated into, English.  See, for example, Ashley Trice, “Capturing Christ: Representations of the God-Man in Middle English Religious Lyrics” (Dissertation, Vanderbilt U., 2002). One may also note the several extant Christian poems composed in Old (Anglo-Saxon) English, as well as the devotional literature, including vernacular prayer books, popular in late Medieval and pre-Reformation England (See Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400–1580 [New Haven: Yale, 2005].) Not all forms of the English language are created equal; not all are fitted for the Liturgy, which embodies a splendid and supernatural reality. That reality, in its objective significance, imposes certain demands upon the forms by which it is communicated. When liturgical form fails to meet this demand, the result is distortion and diminution of devotional sensibility and doctrinal sense.

The idea that reality is informed by language is bound to resonant with students of Sacred Scripture, Catholics, and admirers of J.R.R. Tolkien. (I happen to fall into all three categories.) The Bible tells us that the world was formed by the Word of God. The Church tells us that certain words constitute the form of a sacrament. Tolkien, operating on yet another plane of reality, shows us how words can give rise to worlds, how language leads to knowledge of the past, and, for one so bold as to invent a language, to the “discovery” of something more than the past.

Telling the Truth in Middle Earth

In a comment box (on another website), someone wrote the following:

You know what I love about Tolkien? That he didn’t seek to be a Hemingway or Joyce by creating a ‘new’ language and divorcing style and substance. He used English in all its plainness, yet it became something immortal and, yes, new.

This goes to show that it is possible to disagree with the literal meaning of someone’s words and yet be one with the spirit in which they were written. Tolkien certainly did create a new language. He created several. And he often used the English language in something other than its plainness. Furthermore, it seems pretty plain to me that Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce both sought to wed style and substance, though in almost opposite ways. As for Joyce, the substance of what he wanted to say sort of demanded its own “language,” or experimental arrangement and presentation of certain aspects of language, which he aptly supplied. Both the quasi-language of Finnegans Wake and the sparse sentences of Hemingway conveyed something in or about the world (or least a certain conception of the world) that each author wanted to express.

Tolkien was very much alive to the shapes, sounds and syntax of language. He loved words, as befits a professional philologist. His self-described “secret vice” was the invention of new languages. Tolkien  soon discovered that the choices that he would have to make, in the course of these inventions, implied a story; i.e., the story of those peoples whose languages he was creating. For me, one of the most endearing and (upon reflection) impressive aspects of The Lord of the Rings is the wedding of style and substance in the languages and dialects of Middle Earth. To take the primary examples: Tolkien intended Quenya and Sindarin to be beautiful languages. When he worked back to the peoples who spoke these languages, he very naturally discovered the Elves. Elvish sounds (and looks, cf., the script on the One Ring) like Elves. Dwarvish sounds like Dwarves. And Orkish sounds like Orcs, so to speak, if you take my meaning.

Of course, Tolkien used the English language to tell the stories which went along with his invented languages. I suppose that he wanted other people to read these stories. Thank goodness. Notice, however, the  great diversity in Tolkien’s English style, which is adapted according to scene and society, ranging from the earthy speech of Hobbition to the courtly language of Gondor. The Common Speech used around Farmer Maggot’s table or in the Bathing Song at Crickhollow differs markedly from that same language used in Aragorn’s rendition of the story of Beren and Luthien, or the Eagle’s proclamation of the downfall of the Lord of the Rings. As noted by Tom Shippey (J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century [Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000], 209), the latter calls to mind the Authorized Version of the Bible:

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

And the people sang in all the ways of the City.

(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings [Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004], 963.)

The great thing about all of this, the reason why we receive this linguistic pluriformity in the story as good and natural (which is what the person cited earlier might have been getting at by “plainness”), is that the language used in The Lord of the Rings is informed both by the speaker and (in all but the worst cases) by the reality to which the speaker refers. The peoples of Middle Earth, with their respective stories and cultures and concerns, are embodied in the various languages and different dialects that they use. However, these people (e.g., the four main Hobbit characters) are not locked into themselves so to preclude the expression or enjoyment of anything higher, or lower, than their own  immediate experiences. Or, it they are, part of the point of the adventure is to “expand the horizons” of both the adventurers and those who will eventually listen to their narratives. In this sense, the Quest is deeply humane. Tolkien’s most admirable characters can, in most cases without affectation, and often with genuine enjoyment, accommodate  themselves to a wide variety of social situations. Gandalf is, perhaps, the preeminent example of this virtuous social dexterity (otherwise known as tact). The Hobbits can also rise, or fall, to the occasion. The only people who speak and act the same way all the time are snobs (Denethor) or scum (the Orcs).

It would be unnatural, in fact ridiculous, if the Eagle had proclaimed the news of the downfall of Sauron using the rustic dialect of, say, the Gaffer Gamgee. In fact, if  the plain and honest Gaffer were ever privy to such an absurd display, he might  strongly suspect that some sort of snobbish insult was intended. The goodness of the best of the “ordinary” characters, Sam being the greatest of these, is revealed (in part) by the fact that they are, without pretentiousness, able to admire and enjoy that which is above them. Conversely, the goodness of the extra-ordinary characters, such as Gandalf, Aragorn, and Faramir, is revealed (in part) by their ability to enjoy and respect that which is below them. Such goodness would be destroyed if everyone insisted upon everyone else being, and speaking, just like oneself.

The varieties of story and history are invariably related to variations of and within language–and vice versa. Indifferent, egalitarian use of language both reflects and leads to an indifferent, flat experience of reality. Reality exhibits pluriformity, including hierarchy. Linguistic monotony is not only boring, it is a lie. No one knew this better than Tolkien. The linguistic diversity of Middle Earth is a way of telling the truth about the world.

Eagles, Angels, Anglicans: Liturgical Language in the (erstwhile) British Empire

Scripture and Liturgy, or better, Scripture in Liturgy, since the latter is the natural home of the word of God, mediate, for us, realities that are infinitely joyful, sorrowful, glorious, and luminous. Liturgy was not designed simply to convey information, nor to gather a community merely under the auspices of some contingent social and cultural identity.  The church building is not a classroom, nor is it all a Nave. The sense of the Sanctuary is to render the place a temple. The point of the people assembling is to adore Someone else, our King and our God, who through death has destroyed the power of the Enemy. In such a place, for such a purpose, what is said, in whatever language, should sound like the song of the Eagle. I am not referring specifically to the older style of pronouns and verbs of being (e.g., “ye,” “hath,” “shall”), though I do think that they have their place, when well placed. Rather, I mean to say that liturgical language should be distinctive, an adornment upon everyday speech, and, as much as possible, in keeping with tradition. For English-speaking Catholics, observation of this last point might involve swallowing some pride, since it was the Anglicans who, in this regard, led the way and set the standard.

At this point, you might be thinking: This guy just likes the literary styling of the Elizabethans, and is trying to foist his taste off on the rest of us, as though it were some sort of principle. Well, as far as that goes, I do like that classical cut of English, including the work of Cranmer and the translators of the Authorized Version. To get even further down to specifics, I think that The New Cambridge Paragraph Bible, With the Apocrypha, King James Version, edited by David Norton is the best English Bible in the entire world. (This remarkable work is available in hardcover as well as a very economical Penguin Classics edition. The “King James Version” that most of us know is the standard revision of 1769. Norton bypasses this edition, and goes straight to the source, updating spelling and smoothing out style, while maintaining the classical beauty of the 1611 Authorized Version. As for specifically Catholic translations, the Douay-Rheims that most of us know is not an original work, either. What we have today is the Challoner revision of 1750, which is also directly based upon the 1611 Authorized Version. Interestingly enough, the original Douay-Rheims predates the original Authorized Version by about 30 years. This is a point of some pride for Catholics.)

But my point is not merely subjective, nor even only aesthetic. English biblical and liturgical language has a common root and history that, to some degree, transcends schism. This common tradition must somehow be taken into account in all English translations that are not content to come across as artificial and amnesiac. Once upon a time, it was possible to invent biblical and liturgical English. That time has passed. What I mean is that, for liturgy in English, including Sacred Scripture, there exists a literary tradition. And, as it so happens, this tradition is beautiful. It can certainly be pruned, updated, developed. But for all of the reasons given above, I think that this sort of activity should be (here I must be brief and allusive) more RSV than NAB (or NIV, etc.). The kind of thing I have in mind (which is something not merely in my own mind, since the Church has issued directives on this matter) is nicely illustrated by the title page of the Revised Standard Version, Second Catholic Edition: The Holy Bible. Revised Standard Version / Second Catholic Edition. Translated from the Original Tongues Being the Version Set Forth A.D. 1611…. Compared with the Most Ancient Authorities and Revised A.D. 1952…. This Edition was Revised According to Liturgiam Authenticam, 2002.

I want to close with some remarks on the, humanly speaking, extremely prosaic portions of Sacred Scripture.  The first thing that comes to my mind is how much of the Bible is actually poetry. Even the narrative bits feature some complex literary structures, as is being increasingly appreciated. But that is not what I want to get at, in concluding this post. Rather, I am thinking about the sense in which all of Scripture is the word of God, and therefore more than the sum of its empirical parts. The long and short of it is that, over time, even the most severe and practical portions of the Bible manifest a certain radiance, a splendor of divine glory. This is why, traditionally, and what is still the norm in the Eastern Churches, the Bible is not simply read in the course of the Liturgy–it is sung–even the real prosy parts. If you haven’t experienced this, you might imagine it incongruous to sing some portions of Chronicles or the Acts of the Apostles–after this, he left Athens and went to Corinth…. But the proof is in the pudding, including its doctrinal ingredient. Every last bit of God’s holy word is fit to be chanted by choirs of angels. And I can tell you that the singing is fitting, even when the cantor is more mundane.

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