As mentioned, this summer we're reading The Lord of The Rings aloud at my house. We finished The Hobbit before I began this series, and right now we're starting Book Two of The Fellowship of the Ring. Fact: LOTR is a trilogy of six books.
Reading Tolkien aloud is a joy because he knows the sound of sentences. There is flow and music in his language, as can easily be heard by reading a page of LOTR after a page of any worse novelist (or journalist or blogger).
Bad writing is not hard to come by. Here's a snippet of execrable prose plucked at random from a lifeless headache of a novel that people who still ought to know better are reading today. (And reading on the bus, I must add. Hello? You may have a Kindle, but it's still porn.)
Now, Tolkien. Again, almost a random example:
But read both passages aloud. Really do it. I like to think that I'm pretty good at that, as I've always done it in private and I've spent years delivering passages in front of classrooms. Try as I might, I can't make the first example sound like anything other than someone trying to put captions to a series of pouty fashion photos. In the end, the language has gone nowhere with me. We've just agreed to call it quits.
The Tolkien, meanwhile, establishes pacing and tone and rhythm, even though it is anything but sing-song. Each sentence pulls the voice forward into the next. It doesn't want to stop. This is language that wants to be read.
Reading Tolkien aloud is a joy because he knows the sound of sentences. There is flow and music in his language, as can easily be heard by reading a page of LOTR after a page of any worse novelist (or journalist or blogger).
Bad writing is not hard to come by. Here's a snippet of execrable prose plucked at random from a lifeless headache of a novel that people who still ought to know better are reading today. (And reading on the bus, I must add. Hello? You may have a Kindle, but it's still porn.)
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.These sentences start. Then they stop. They pass basically without having happened. They bear no relation to one another in sound or any other pattern. The passage seems composed mainly to avoid taxing anyone's vocabulary or ear. It's like Stepford here.
Now, Tolkien. Again, almost a random example:
Immediately, though everything else remained as before, dim and dark, the shapes became terribly clear. He was able to see beneath their black wrappings. There were five tall figures: two standing on the lip of the dell, three advancing. In their white faces burned keen and merciless eyes; under their mantles were long grey robes; upon their grey helms were helms of silver; in their haggard hands were swords of steel. Their eyes fell upon him and pierced him, as they rushed towards him. Desperate, he drew his own sword, and it seemed to him that it flickered red, as if it was a firebrand.This isn't even Tolkien at his best. "Keen and merciless eyes" may be almost a cliche, but in context I'll take it over "I roll my eyes at myself," especially if I am forced to visualize it.
But read both passages aloud. Really do it. I like to think that I'm pretty good at that, as I've always done it in private and I've spent years delivering passages in front of classrooms. Try as I might, I can't make the first example sound like anything other than someone trying to put captions to a series of pouty fashion photos. In the end, the language has gone nowhere with me. We've just agreed to call it quits.
The Tolkien, meanwhile, establishes pacing and tone and rhythm, even though it is anything but sing-song. Each sentence pulls the voice forward into the next. It doesn't want to stop. This is language that wants to be read.
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