LEFTOVERS I --- Apocrypha Topologica III

Have you contemplated lately that marvelous invention, the revolving door?

The usual application of a revolving door is to compromise between the extremes of an open window and a wall. Specifically, the Revolving Door is a device which can be set in motion by an intelligent force (say, of animal intelligence at least) but not by an unintelligent force (as, say, a differential in air pressure). In the particular case of pressurized buildings, a good revolving door is not driven by the pressure inside, though air will tend to exit the building as the door is driven by people.

Anyways, as several of the other artifacts already mentioned in this very-occasional series, a revolving door exemplifies mechanical separation within topological connectedness. How strange, that! Anyways, the actual story of the moment is how, some time after the invention of anchored submarine mines, first that a clever engineer found a way to dredge harbours for them by towing weighted cables between separated vessels, and secondly that another clever engineer partially foiled that scheme by inventing a Revolving Door For Cables, In a Cable. I do rather wish that there were happier circumstances around this Intrinsically Delightful Invention, but, well, there we are.

Now, I should also tell you that I first heard about the cable-passing cable-joint from Richard Feynman, who likes to sprinkle his works with ... incorrections... just so that intrepid readers don't take his word for everything, and also to ensure that those inclined to calculation have extra fun checking his facts. As I write elsewhere (no, I shan't link, here) sometimes a condensor should be an inductance, sometimes 2:1 should be 1:2. Is a "shaft-passer" or a "cable-passer" actually a thing?

As it turns out, you can build them semi-automatically. Actually, that there is one of two possible implementations. They can also be built with a fixed axle connected to one side, but the principal of the thing is that the Revolving Door Shape itself serves as the guide for the round "walls" of the revolving door's frame, in consequence of the side-angle-side theorem, or some such.

I am dubious whether these things were any sure foil against the undermining of... under... water... mines... (no, originally, "undermining" was part of Castle-Siege warfare)... because of the fiddly coincidences needed to pass the dredging cable from the a suitable angle at the correct depth... building a chain of these links would be a fiddly mess indeed. But perhaps it was effective enough that you could never feel sure that this-or-that harbour was really safe.

Which is to say, we're also discussing an invisible, and nonmechanical means of inducing a local separation: the threat of a perfectly unintelligent, violent force.

Who calls you hobbits, though?

"Hoom, hmm! Come, now! Not so hasty! You call yourselves hobbits? But you should not go telling just anybody. You'll be letting out your own right names, if you're not careful."

"We aren't careful about that," said Merry, "As a matter of fact I'm a Brandybuck, Meriadoc Brandybuck, though most people call me just Merry."

"And I'm a Took, Peregrin Took, but I'm generally called Pippin, or even Pip."

"Hm, but you are hasty folk, I see [...] I'll call you Merry and Pippin, if you please --- nice names. For I am not going to tell you my name, not yet at any rate." A queer half-knowing, half-humorous look came with a green flicker into his eyes. ...

Being a lazy reader (and I really ought to be trying to work out when and why there's a splitting in some queer long-exact sequence involving spheres... the answer is "in exactly those cases I want to ignore") it has taken me a long while to think about the flurry of names-as-such in the Epic; some of this is due to the rich linguistic history that Tolkien imagined for his subcreation. But I'm starting to piece together something more: even deeper than Tolkien's love of euphony (whether or not Greek!) there seems to be something of a philosophy of names for things that he is keen on approaching from several angles.

"Eh? What's that? Don't you know my name yet? That's the only answer. Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless? But you are young, and I am old. Eldest, that's what I am."

It is curious that Bombadil claims this title for himself, and Elrond seems to ackowledge it; while Gandalf and Celeborn seem to propose him we know as Treebeard, who opened the topic for us, as "Eldest", and "the oldest of all living things". Perhaps this grant should be informed by our knowing (from the Silmarillion) that Gandalf is actually akin to Saruman and Sauron and the Valar, who have their memory from before the making of Eä or Arda in it, or the shaping of Middle Earth within that. Whether Bombadil or Treebeard is of the same sort or something else I can't tell or guess: the histories are confused, or I am.

But even more: Bombadil echoes something of Treebeard's philosophy in asserting that, on the one hand it is difficult (if not impossible) to talk of specific people without having some word to use as naming them, yet there is often something in each person's Story that will pin down which person they are: and so, Eldest works for Bombadil. If you aren't likely to meet Bombadil (and most of us aren't), then Eldest may as well suit Treebeard --- not that you're much more likely to meet him than Old Tom.

"Mithrandir we called him in elf-fashion," said Faramir, "and he was content. Many are my names in many countries he said. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not."

To the East... there are hints that in the Lost Tales more is made of the "Rods of the Five Wizards" --- you'll note we only ever have names and colours for three! --- that two Blue Wizards got lost in the East; but here we learn that to some extent, names are things given us by those around us. In this sense none of my noms de dactylographe is really apt, least of all that I use most. Mind you, wherever I go on the internet, if the local service doesn't assign me a name, whatever name I do use is effectively one I'm claiming for myself.

About that, let's jump volumes:

But when Gwindor would tell his name, Túrin checked him, saying "I am Agarwaen the son of Úmarth," --- (which is "Blood-stained, the son of Ill-fate") --- "a hunter in the woods"; and the Elves of Nargothrond questioned him no more.
[...]

On the one hand, it may be perilous to play with names too recklessly. There are plenty of cautions out there against nicknaming your Guardian Angel, for instance --- it being sufficient to use the title "My Guardian dear", and difficult to be sure that some other word doesn't address something less holy, or less wholesome. Very perilous; though Tolkien is not univocal on Man's proper relation to Peril: "Indeed, [Gimli], you are beset with dangers, for you are dangerous yourself, in your own way" on the one hand, while on the other "Yet I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee." But let us see also what Gwindor later advises his dangerous friend:

Now when Túrin learned from Finduilas of what had passed, he was wrathful, and said to Gwindor: "In love I hold you for rescue and safe-keeping. But now you have done ill to me, friend, to betray my right name, and call my doom upon me, from which I would lie hid."

But Gwindor answered: "The doom lies in yourself, not in your name."

That is, there is a definite sense in which what I call myself (short of impersonation -- cf. Amlach from "The coming of Men into the West", Silmarilion) is less important than my character in deeds and in conversation, and certainly the one is easier to change than the other. Túrin is indeed seen to be a tragic figure in the old Greek sense --- for though the "weight of [Morgoth's] thought" (Narn i chin Húrin) oppresses him, yet it is by his own habits that destruction and despoliation is able to follow wherever he goes, and eventually overcome him with despair.

On the other hand, there is --- even beyond history, the things we've done --- a sense in which certain names are more apt, though they may have to wait some time come into their own:

And so the very name it was foretold at his birth that he should bear was chosen for him by his own people.

At the gate.

A spot in Middle Earth, eh?

Hmmm...

There might be much to say about Dor Firn-i-Guinar --- the "Land of the Dead that Live" a name that should resound in the hearts of all werewolves --- only we don't hear much about it as a place beyond that there are Ents living nearby at the time. I'd very much like to do a post about a spot I can only call Annon Torech Ungol, which I wrote about obliquely here, and Meredith here. Alas, I haven't got that volume handy just now.

So I'll have to try at two snatched hints at the texts... I've read it too often, but I can't be sure of memory!

`"Now where's that Gollum got off to? I used to think he was after food, but I don't think that can be the case here. Not unless there's some sort of rock he fancies." ...

`Frodo laughed; such a sound as had not been heard in that part of the world since ... Sam was suddenly quiet, worried almost as if the very stones had ears. But Frodo laughed again ...

... someone else will have to supply the precise words, if they like. Now, it's bad enough that the place would be lifeless in itself, But can you imagine? Somewhere no-one had ever laughed? And this is also a much-used highway. There are tales of doomed prisonners cheering eachother with jokes at Auschwitz and Dachau. In this place, it was Frodo and Sam.

That's my locus.



UPDATE

I've got my book back, and here are the proper texts:

In a dark crevice between two great piers of rock they sat down: ...
[Sam:] 'There's a wicked feeling about this place.' He sniffed. 'And a smell, I fancy. Do you notice it? A queer kind of smell, stuffy. I don't like it.'

'I don't like anything here at all,' said Frodo, 'step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid.'
...

'... I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We're in one, of course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: "Let's hear about Frodo and the Ring!" and they'll say "Yes, that's one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave, wasn't he, dad?" " Yes, my boy, the famousest of hobbits, and that's saying a lot."'

'It's saying a lot too much,' said Frodo, and he laughed, a long clear laugh from his heart. Such a sound had not been heard in those places since Sauron came to middle-earth. To Sam suddenly it seemed as if all the stones were listening and the tall rocks leaning over them. But Frodo did not heed them; he laughed again. ...

... 'You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say that this point: "Shut the book now, dad; we don't want to read any more."'

'Maybe.' said Sam, 'but I wouldn't be one to say that. Things done and over and made into part of a the great tales are different. Why, even Gollum might be good in a tale, ...

'Gollum!," he called. 'Would you like to be the hero---now where's he got to again? There was no sign of him...

'I don't like his sneaking off without saying,' said Sam. 'And least of all now. He can't be looking for food up here, not unless there's some kind of rock he fancies. Why, there isn't even a bit of moss!'

Goodness me! but it's quite a bit thicker, what with trying to keep enough of the structure/context. I particularly like the internal contrast with a cozy fireplace; you might think it made the present place feel more desolate, but I find it actually softens the mood. It is as if our hobbit heroes actually conjure up some coziness for themselves with these innocent diversions.

Eeek! What a place!

A locus focus, and Oh! what a scary place it is, too. For today we are serving

Detention with Dolores

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

[Harry Potter] had known this office under three of its previous occupants. [...]

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognisable. The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases of dried flowers, each one residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared at them transfixed, untill Professor Umbridge spoke again.

I'm already shivering!

I also thought about mentioning this locus back in September, for "educational" settings. Indeed, Harry learns much about the nature of evil --- as well as something of the heroic --- in this particular office room between his second and fifth year.

In its fifth-volume avatar, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Proffessor's Office shows us just how ugly good things like kittens can be made, with just the wrong sort of twist; in an interesting parallel, the same room highlights just how ugly such a good thing as devotion to the Truth can become when twisted into "devotion to what I say the Truth is" --- which is an idolatry.

I don't want to say too much more because I believe Enbrethiliel hasn't read this book yet.

That Bat also known as some guy on the street

Is it scary here? Or is it just me?

I seem to linger on one or two authors; this time I feel like another Tolkien spot, not far from last time's locus.

After stumbling along for some way along the stream, they came quite suddenly out of the gloom. As if through a gate, they saw the sunlight before them. Coming to the opening they found that they had made their way down through a cleft in a high steep bank, almost a cliff. At its feet was a wide space of grass and reeds; and in the distance could be glimpsed another bank almost as steep. A golden afternoon of late sunshine lay warm and drowsy upon the hidden land between. In the midst of it there wound lazily a dark river of brown water, bordered with ancient willows, blocked with fallen willows, and flecked with thousands of faded willow-leaves. The air was thick with them, fluttering yellow from the branches; for there was a warm and gentle breeze blowing softly in the valley, and the reeds were rustling, and the willow-boughs were creaking.

`Well, now I have at least some notion of where we are!' said Merry. `... This is the River Withywindle!...'

I suppose there's not much frightening about that, as far as it goes --- but you have to read the book! I love the way that "willow" note recurs, like an ostinato counterpoint. Or perhaps it's a flatted dominant? For myself, "willow" is one of my "cellar door"s, quite apart from how I admire willow-trees in person. But here...

... There were armies of flies of all kinds buzzing around their ears, and the afternoon sun was burning on their backs. At last they came suddenly into a thin shade; great grey branches reached across the path. Each step forward became more reluctant than the last. Sleepiness seemed to be creeping out of the ground and up their legs, and falling softly out of the air upon their heads and eyes.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Go read the book, now, if you don't remember it. But it's worth noting that willows, while lovely and graceful, are not the trustiest of trees; their wood is rather too soft for structural uses, and they tend to fall apart as they get older. A venerable old specimen in one of my favourite boyhood parkly haunts was dismantled recently, to forestall it's falling down on unsuspecting visitors. Tolkien's rather more willful Old Man Willow character, who very much defines this place, is an alarming extrapolation of my poignant beloved trees.

--Some Guy on the Street, for

The River Withywindle
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
J.R.R. Tolkien

Hic sunt raptores

Dear Dr. Malcolm,

I thought you'd be entertained by a case-in-point, maybe one of your accolytes could make a good study of it.

A couple months ago, I noticed that some recent acquaintances of mine particularly enjoyed talking about houses; and so the principal instigator decided to say something like "let's do that deliberately!" setting a time and place(ish) for the discussion, and then at the last-ish minute, switched the theme to family homes. I don't quite recall how that worked out, but anyways, as my intended presentation was about a house which wasn't a family home, some scrambling ensued --- I still haven't quite got 'round to that, either... and of course, quite notably, there are plenty of family homes that aren't quite houses either.
...

The grass under their feet was smooth and short, as if it had been mown or shaven. The eaves of the Forest behind were clipped, and trim as a hedge. The path was now plain before them, well-tended and bordered with stone. It wound up on to the top of a grassy knoll, now grey under the pale starry night; and there, still high above them on a further slope, the saw the twinkling lights of a house
[...]
They were in a long low room, filled with the light of lamps swinging from the beams of the roof; and on the table of dark polished wood stood many candles, tall and yellow, burning brightly.
[...]
He opened the door, and they followed him down a short passage and round a sharp turn. They came to a low room with a sloping roof (a penthouse, it seemed, built on to the north end of the house). Its walls were of clean stone, but they were mostly covered with green hanging mats and yellow curtains. The floor was flagged, and strewn with fresh green rushes.
[...]The guests were commanded to sit quiet, and were set in chairs, each with a footstool to his tired feet. There was a fire in the wide heath before them, and it was burning with a sweet smell, as if it were built of apple wood.
[...]
Frodo stood near the open door and watched the white chalky path turn into a little river of milk and go bubbling away down into the valley.

Ahah! Yes, this is (in case you don't recognize it yet) from the Lord of the Rings, describing one of the most quietly magical places in all Middle Earth, the house of Tom Bombadil. And it clearly won't do for the present weekend theme, but I thought it would make an interesting comparison to the camel-breaking straw I'll describe next...


Things went on, and some houses crept in again, one of the latest just after the next thematic conference was announced on Nature Settings, this particular house underground, which I remarked on, and then mentioned another it reminded me of; and I wrote also (silly me), pointing-out the fitting nature-ness of my recollection, whereat our flighty captain decided "that's it! Not nature settings, underground settings!" and here we are, again.

He shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of a central hall; out of which they could dimly see other long tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without apparent end. But there were doors in the hall as well—stout oaken comfortable-looking doors. One of these the Badger flung open, and at once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large fire-lit kitchen.
[...]

This is the Badger's home. Some marked differences from Bombadil's: the one is old and shabby, dark, and winding, and the other has an almost eternal freshness to it, is comfortably compact, and well-lit inside (until it's time for sleeping).

The floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the wall, well out of any suspicion of draught. A couple of high-backed settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. In the middle of the room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with benches down each side. At one end of it, where an arm-chair stood pushed back, were spread the remains of the Badger's plain but ample supper. Rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams, bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. It seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their Harvest Home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction.

Again, though, we find within the branching warren a cozy and welcoming place. It is significant that both of these homes are found by our protagonists as places of refuge; and both our authors have clearly done their best to make them fitting as such. (Of course, the four wandering heroes at Bombadil's will encounter a great many more such places, offering varying degrees of comfort; one of the ways we see them grow is in how readily they finally will make-do with much less.) And so we have many common elements between them: the places themselves have a solidly-built quality (flag-stone and brick flooring), they are filled with comforts (deep settles/soft chairs with footstools), good food --- simple and yet copious --- and both feature a warm fireplace.

Now, about subteraneanity --- it is a Hobbit's preference, but Bombadil's isn't; it's also much to the liking of a Mole or a Badger:

... 'Once well underground,' [Mole] said, 'you know exactly where you are. Nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. You're entirely your own master, and you don't have to consult anybody or mind what they say. Things go on all the same overhead, and you let 'em, and don't bother about 'em. When you want to, up you go, and there the things are, waiting for you.'

The Badger simply beamed on him. 'That's exactly what I say,' he replied. 'There's no security, or peace and tranquillity, except underground. And then, if your ideas get larger and you want to expand—why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! If you feel your house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are again! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no WEATHER.

and Badger does go on a length about that. There is a curious thing, though, about Badger's place, in that it hasn't always been underground. But I suggest reading the book, about that.


...

I suppose it isn't really a question of strange attractors or unstable dynamics, but I suppose I will have to be careful what I suggest, if I'm to be flitting about with this sort of crowd, won't I?

Anyways, here's to your eventual recovery. Take care of that leg, now!

a paleophile

Oh, Heck, let's try another!

Dear GK,

Happy Birthday!

You may have read that last week I reported some of your notes about Beacon House; this week, I think I'll return to Manalive, if that is allowed, and repeat some of your remarks about Cambridge. A copy of the notes is attached bellow

Your child in orthodoxy

Home to the Dukes of Beacon

Dear Enbrethiliel,

It's Belfry, here.

This may seem an odd choice, given what others have complained of as "GKC's predilection for splashing purple moons and peacock skies about and calling it scenery" ( --> ). But in fact he was also a man keenly interested in family and holy homes, and being also a writer of vivid imagination, in Manalive he builds for us a diverting holiday house indeed, though it takes a while.

A wind sprang high in the west, like a wave of unreasonable happiness, and tore eastward across England, trailing with it the frosty scent of forests and the cold intoxication of the sea.
[...]
The flying blast struck London just where it scales the northern heights, terrace above terrace, as precipitous as Edinburgh. It was round about this place that some poet, probably drunk, looked up astonished at all those streets gone skywards, and (thinking vaguely of glaciers and roped mountaineers) gave it the name of Swiss Cottage, which it has never been able to shake off. At some stage of those heights a terrace of tall gray houses, mostly empty and almost as desolate as the Grampians, curved round at the western end, so that the last building, a boarding establishment called "Beacon House," offered abruptly to the sunset its high, narrow and towering termination, like the prow of some deserted ship.

Welcome!

Not a comedy, not a tragedy

(no substantial spoilers that I can see; not that many people are reading this, anyway...)

Dear Reader,

I've been reading (again!) The Lord of the Rings, which I seem to do periodically. Not quite every year, but most, and sometimes with less than a year between readings. I must be mad, somehow. In any case, I've been thinking back on the first time I read it, and the first time I finished it in particular, back in fifth grade I think.

It made me cry, I don't know why. I certainly didn't understand the ending on that first reading, though since then it's come to make better sense, and the point that constricts my throat and burns my eyes seems to come a bit earlier each time through.

In the present reading, I'm struck by the recurring theme of choice, the necessity of making some choice, the difficulty of making good choices out of imperfect knowledge, the moral imperative to choose the Good. Perhaps the most hopeful thought on this subject is expressed by Aragorn, who answers Éomer's question "How shall a man judge what to do in such times?" — times tumultuous amid unimagined strange happenings:

`As he ever has judged,' said Aragorn. `Good and ill have not chaged since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man's part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.'

In other words, the main thing is that we mustn't loose our heads amidst all the possible distractions life in the world may throw at us. If you can recognize good and behave like a normal good person amid abnormal trials, you just might be a hero.

In my present reading, I've just come through one of Tolkien's embedded dissertations, on storytelling and what makes a good story. Here he refers, through his characters, to another of the tales he was continually working on — the tale of Beren and Luthien — and it is interesting that the two speakers in time realize that they belong to, are indeed living out, a long-removed continuation of that very same tale. This inspires them to imagine someone reading their own story out of a book, and to wonder what sort of people would read it, even though they can't see just now how they'll ever get back home or tell anyone of their adventures.

And that set me to thinking about the ending, because I myself do now know how it turns out; yet I want to keep reading anyway, even though I'll probably find myself choking-up for a few minutes towards the end. I'm not sure if it should be called foreshadowing, but having finished before, reading their talk of not foreseeing the end put me in this pensive mood, anyway. It certainly is poignant, in any case.

I begin to wonder if it's a bit like dying, this knowing the end must come, and getting there in time. God willing, though, it'll be years and ages before I find out: too much work to do, first!

An awkward mythophile.