The
Lord of the Rings
vs.
Titus
Groan:
How
the Worlds of LotR and TG Reflect the Themes of
Tradition,
Power and Identity
in an
Apolline/Dionysian Framework
Student:
Wolf Van Landeghem
Promoter:
Gaëtan Tahir
Sint-Jozef-Klein-Seminarie,
Sint-Niklaas, Schoolyear 2024-25, 6LMT
Foreword
I have been an avid reader of
fantasy for some time now; I started with modern fantasy, and branched out into
mythology and classic fantasy through the influence of J.G. Keely’s work. I
have a deep love for the genre, and I am very fond of Peake’s work. I wrote
this for my own pleasure, that I could have a more profound understanding of
these texts, both significant for their influence on the genre – and on
me. However, the fact that I am young
significantly decreases my chances of writing an innovative paper purely based
on knowledge and research, therefore I have mainly made use of pure rational
thinking and personal experiences to drive my paper a bit closer toward the
innovation I so deeply admire in other works.
I want this paper to be
accessible for people who aren’t very familiar with Titus Groan or the concepts
I discuss. Therefore I have provided a short summary of Titus Groan and the
definitions and explanations of the philosophical terms or concepts that will
be used in this paper.
Short summary of Titus Groan:
Titus Groan is the first book in the Gormenghast
series by Mervyn Peake, set within the decaying, ritual-bound castle of
Gormenghast. The novel follows Titus, the heir to the castle, as he grows up
surrounded by an oppressive system of laws and customs that dictate every
aspect of life. While the castle’s rigid structure is meant to maintain order,
it simultaneously creates an atmosphere of stifling conformity, which drives
its inhabitants into submission or a kind of existential chaos. This system,
representative of the Apolline (order and structure), paradoxically exercises a
Dionysian influence on its people, who either rebel against or are crushed by
its demands, and the castle itself. Key figures include Sepulchrave, the
melancholic Earl, whose submission to the castle’s rituals leads to an ultimate
breakdown, and Steerpike, the ambitious manipulator who uses the system’s
rigidity to his advantage. Ultimately, Gormenghast itself functions as a
hyperreality, where external structures and rituals consume individual
autonomy, driving characters either into submission, rebellion, or internal
chaos.
Defining the Concepts:
The Apolline: A concept from
Nietzsche, symbolizing order, rationality, clarity, and restraint. It
represents the "controlled" aspects of human nature, often associated
with the god Apollo in Greek mythology.
The Dionysian: Also from Nietzsche,
this represents chaos, emotion, irrationality, and the instinctual, passionate
side of human nature. It is linked with the god Dionysus and embraces freedom,
ecstasy, and primal energy.
The Übermensch: Nietzsche's idea of the
"Overman" or "Superman," a person who transcends
conventional morality and societal norms to create their own values. This
figure is an ideal of self-mastery and personal evolution.
Will to Power: Nietzsche's concept
describing a fundamental drive in humans to assert and enhance their power and
influence. It goes beyond mere survival and is seen as the core motivation for
human action and growth.
Hyperreality: A concept from
postmodern philosophy, especially Jean Baudrillard, where the distinction
between reality and a simulation of reality becomes blurred. In hyperreality,
simulations or representations of things become more real to people than the
actual reality itself.
Simulacrum: Also from Baudrillard, a
simulacrum is a copy or representation of something that no longer has an
original or reference in reality. It’s a sign or image that exists in place of
something that is no longer real or is fabricated.
Concepts developed by myself:
Fundamentally escapist: the activity itself aims
to let the person escape reality.
Fundamentally confrontational: the activity itself aims
to improve the person's reality.
Experientially escapist: the person experiences
the activity as a way to escape reality, regardless of what sort of an activity
the activity is, whether it be fundamentally escapist or confrontational.
Experientially confrontational: the person experiences
the activity as a way to improve his reality, regardless of what sort of an
activity the activity is, whether it be fundamentally escapist or
confrontational.
Bubbles: all "freedom" the Apolline
system permits the individual on a material, social and cognitive level.
Lastly, I want to express my sincere gratitude to my
promotor, G. Tahir, for his insightful advice and excellent guidance throughout
this project – even though I didn’t always follow his instructions. I dedicate this paper to my greatest
influences, whose works have been of great inspiration to me and my work in
general, and have helped me directly or indirectly to many wonderful insights
regarding the discussed texts: J. G. Keely, F. V. D. Waa, John C. Wright and F.
Nietzsche, especially for deepening my understanding and appreciation for the
Dionysian in both art and life.
Table of Contents
1.
Introduction
2.
Tradition
2.1
Titus Groan
2.2
The Lord of the Rings
3.
Power
3.1
The Lord of the Rings
3.2
Titus Groan
4.
Identity
4.1
Introduction
4.2
Titus Groan
4.3
The Lord of the Rings
5.
Conclusion
5.1
On the manner of
worldbuilding
5.2
Measured Against Nietzsche’s Idea
of Great Art
5.3
Titus Groan vs. The Lord of
the Rings
6.
Bibliography
Introduction
Tolkien's work has been subject to sharp criticism and
vitriol for some time now, from critics and writers like Keely, Moorcock, and
Mieville. Many of the arguments against The Lord of the Rings
have already been addressed, and this paper will take the time to refute some
of these counterarguments in order to support our own points. On the other
hand, Titus Groan has
had a mixed reception from critics over the years, but it has long since gained
a significant cult following, especially from the 1980s onward. These two
works are often compared in terms of quality, yet no definitive argument has
been made to determine which one is superior. I would argue that J.G. Keely has
come closest to decisively pushing Tolkien out of the competition—he
demonstrated in his review that Tolkien is neither as original nor as
insightful as the great works of fantasy from which he drew inspiration.
However, since Keely has not yet made a direct comparison between the two, it
is up to us to do so. Thus, in this paper we will try
construct an evaluative argument why one text is superior to the other in terms
of thematic depth and relevance. Though I had my own bias as to who would
win the standoff, I tried as much as possible to make both chances equal, and
to write without prejudice. And finally we'll conclude whether these texts
belong to the realm of great fantasy literature.
But that's the secondary focus of the paper, since the
primary focus is exploring how both worlds reflect the themes of power,
tradition and identity within an Apolline/ Dionysian framework. The idea to
apply this framework to fantasy literature originated from J.G. Keely.
Before I started this paper, I was already very
familiar with the texts and the concepts I discuss in the paper, therefore I
didn’t do any major additional research. I chose to rely on pure, rational
thought grounded in personal experience and knowledge, believing that original
thought often yields far more insight and engagement than the compulsive
invocation of endless quotes and external texts. Consequently, any similarities
with other texts are completely coincidental.
Titus Groan
Tradition in Titus Groan
is depicted as pointless, static and cruel. Peake doesn’t provide any arguments
in favour of tradition’s value to society and the individual, and his work is
thus sometimes misunderstood as a bad exploration of the themes when the
exploration of ritual is read as its only theme. Science fiction writer and
critic John C. Wright wrote in his review:
“As for the theme, the single thread running
through the book is a grinding, ceaseless, tireless and jeering hatred of
ritual, which the author here portrays only as those rites which commemorate
nothing, engender no emotion, represent nothing, praise no gods, formalize no
solemnities, and, in a word, do nothing and have no meaning.
Steerpike,
the murderous sociopath, is presented as the only character in this book wise
enough to be dissatisfied with the utterly meaningless formalities.”
Ritual here is read as the
novel’s only theme, while ritual is rather a backdrop or a foundation wherefrom
to explore other themes. To understand this better, we should look at other
‘great’ works of literature. The Trial by Kafka uses for example
bureaucracy in the same way that Peake uses ritual – interesting to note here
that Joseph K. is, too ,‘the only character wise enough to be dissatisfied with
the system’. Both authors use a rather absurdist representation of these
themes, Kafka’s bureaucracy being poorly organized and retreated into old,
decaying apartment buildings, rather than having total and absolute power over
space and the individual, and Peake’s system of ritual being disorienting,
absurd, and imbedded within the decaying Gormenghast castle, and, just like
Kafka, having to adapt to space instead of the other way around.
What these authors do, is
they take a concept to the extreme, and thus use it to explore other themes
which they otherwise couldn’t have done in the same way. They explore one side
(often the negative) of a theme and use it as a backdrop to explore other
themes.
If we were to apply
Wright’s logic to The Fellowship of the Ring (which he praises as the superior
text), his argument falls apart, since tradition in LotR is something
inherently good, and all who oppose it are bad (Sauron, Saruman). This concept
is in and of itself not necessarily a dangerous thing, since it can be used, as
we argued earlier, to explore other themes. We can examine the ways both
authors use it as a starting point, and which one achieves more depth through
the use of it. However, Peake never says that tradition is all bad, but that
meaningless tradition is meaningless, and that the preservation of tradition
can lead to the loss of meaning of tradition, while Tolkien does depict
tradition as inherently good. What is stronger, dealing in absolutes, or
handling things with nuance and depth? (Mind you, we will be exploring nuance
in LotR later.)
Tradition, represented by
the system of ritual, manifests itself in space. The sheer scale of the castle
is overwhelming. The dimly lit corridors, large spaces, towering walls and
labyrinthine passages make space feel oppressive. The decay of the castle mirrors
the loss of meaning of ritual. And the endless rooms and corridors mirror the
complexity and meaninglessness of the system of ritual. Again we recognize the similarities
with bureaucracy.
In Gormenghast, tradition
is an unquestioned system, where rituals replace governance. The earl,
Sepulchrave, is nothing but a passive component of the system. His life and
will are dominated by ritual.
Lord of the Rings
It's interesting to note that in LotR change is
essentially tragic and forced change leads to decay (Saruman, Sauron), while in
Gormenghast stagnation leads to decay (the crumbling of the castle itself, the
gothic nature of its people). Though Tolkien depicts stagnation as something
inherently good, while Peake depicts change with more ambiguity and depth
through Steerpike's rise to power without romanticizing it like Tolkien tends
to with stagnation.
In contrast to Titus Groan, LotR depicts tradition as
good, wise, noble and thus to be preserved. Nearly all the people in Middle
Earth try to preserve it, and those who don't are depicted as evil or
corrupted.
The elves try to preserve tradition, and when they
can't, they set out to leave Middle Earth. The elves desire stagnation, but
aren't able to keep it. Men, dwarves and hobbits symbolize natural change,
while Sauron and Saruman symbolize forced change. The elves' departion from
Middle Earth is deeply melancholic. It's actually the only element of the story
that feels truly fantastic and mythic, through its balance between the Apolline
(the elves) and the Dionysian (the transformation of death and rebirth, time
and impermanence).
Still, we can argue that even here, Tolkien isn't able
to completely embrace the Dionysian, as there's still the moralistic melancholy
about that loss, as if the old world is more desirable than the new; a moral
judgement that is not present in Dunsany's work, where the melancholy is purely
connected to his near perfect balance between the Apolline and the Dionysian.
As we argued earlier, the Shire is a utopia, and
something that must be preserved, though not 'embalmed', for Tolkien doesn't
mind natural change and growth. When forced change does come during the Scour
of the Shire, it's depicted as tragic, and the eventual saving of the Shire
reaffirms the importance of tradition.
During the Steward's rule, the White Tree, the symbol
for prosperity, temporarily withers, and when the heir reclaims the throne and
the old order is restored, it blooms again. One could argue that stagnation
lead to the withering of the tree, but I would argue that the change from the
tradition led to the withering of the tree, and that return to tradition
restores the tree.
In Rohan we have an interesting exception, since Eowyn
is directly opposing tradition. By the way, this is not a pure strong female
character, since she's a female character that wants to be like men, which
leaves LotR still without a pure strong female character, which is kind of
awkward considering the immense cast of characters, but then again, Tolkien was
not entirely devoid of sexism, racism, technophobia, etc. Anyway, she's the
only 'good' character that directly opposes tradition, yet this is not even a
full exploration of how suffocating tradition can be, since tradition is later
affirmed by Eowyn's return to the hearth. It seems to fall a bit out of place
in such a rigid world, though I guess it's such little nuances that
differentiate Tolkien from the propagandists.
Power
Lord of the Rings
Power in The Lord of the Rings is presented as
something intrinsically corruptive. Power must not be taken—it must be earned,
through the following of Christian virtues like humility, service, and
nobility. This is illustrated by Aragorn, the servant-king, and contrasted with
Sauron and Saruman, who are evil because of their Will to Power. But this is
not a deep exploration of power—it is a manifestation of Tolkien’s personal
beliefs about its use.
This runs counter to the idea of the Übermensch,
who embraces the Will to Power and forges his own moral framework. Yet
Tolkien’s world leaves no room for the Übermensch—LotR, in
general, doesn’t seem like a party Nietzsche was invited to, hehe.
Tolkien allows only dim shadows of the Dionysian and
the Übermensch to remain, only to put them in the stocks—without the
critical reflection, ambiguity, or nuance found in Dante or Milton.
The structures of power also manifest spatially—across the geographies of each
world. In Middle-earth, Apolline forces are always wrapped in nature,
symbolizing beauty, harmony, and wisdom. Dionysian forces, by contrast, are
stripped of nature—often shown as having consumed it—and instead represent
industry and machinery.
The castle of Titus Groan, however, is
constructed more like a bureaucracy—or the bureaucratic process itself. Every
building, every stone placed with cold, rational intent—yet the whole is
irrational. A fusion of the Apolline and the Dionysian.
Over time, however, that structure has rotted into a
Dionysian nightmare of decay and disorientation—a place of overwhelming excess,
collapsing under its own weight. This is a Nietzschean transformation: the idea
that no matter how rational the structure, it will eventually fall prey to
Dionysian forces.
Tolkien was a conservative. Most important to note are
his love for rural and communal life, an intense dislike for the
industrialization and mechanization of the modern world, and a longing for a
pre-modern England. He imbedded Middle Earth with these political views – not
to dismiss the even greater influence of his theological and moral views.
The power structures in Middle Earth are widely
varied, but the way they are handled is not. To illustrate this -- though only
in part, for the rest of the paper supports this thesis, I will be discussing
the main forms of power.
The Shire is depicted as an idealized, pastoral,
self-sustaining society where people live in harmony with nature, experience
little to no internal conflict, and seemingly require no external governance
beyond a few loose customs. It embodies a romanticized vision of pre-industrial
England—one where people work the land, enjoy simple pleasures, and don’t
meddle in the affairs of the wider world.
Tolkien rejected the idea that The Shire was a utopia,
and clarified his intentions in this letter, as demonstrated in this refutation
of Moorcock's Epic Pooh:
"Moorcock’s assertion that Tolkien upholds The Shire as an
idealized place is simply not correct. Twenty-four years before Moorcocks’
essay, Tolkien anticipated this argument in a letter to Naomi Mitchison (Letter
154), writing that hobbits are not a Utopian vision, or recommended as an ideal
in their own or any age. They, as all peoples and their situations, are an
historical accident – as the Elves point out to Frodo – and an impermanent one
in the long view. I am not a reformer nor an ‘embalmer’! I am not a ‘reformer’
(by exercise of power) since it seems doomed to Sarumanism. But ‘embalming’ has
its own punishments. This goes back again to the idea of the “long defeat.”
Tolkien is basically expressing here what is commonly, and perhaps wrongly,
associated by Westerners with an Eastern philosophical concept: that the only
constant is change."
But his intentions don't change the way he structured and wrote it. There are
many arguments to defend our position; one of which is that the working class
is romanticized and 'happy', unlike the real-world peasant workers, who
experienced class tensions, struggles for land, crimes, political complexity,
etcetera ad nauseum. An accidental Utopia doesn't render it a non-Utopia, now
does it?
A quick summary of the power
structures in Middle Earth:
Rivendel and Gondor represent monarchy and council.
Here, power is wielded by the wise and the honourable. Gondor, though, is a
monarchy in crisis, being ruled by stewards in wait for their legitimate and
rightful king. Tolkien depicts such power as flawed as Denethor, the steward
and current ruler of Gondor, develops a distrust in tradition and thus becomes
corrupted, while Aragorn represents the ideal king and ruler, in accordance
with christian virtues like nobility, obedience, sacrifice and selflessness.
Sauron and Saruman represent authoritarianism and tyranny, wielding absolute
power that isn't supported by tradition.
Titus Groan
The power structure of Gormenghast
is fundamentally Apolline—like its architecture. It is orderly, its components
initially rational, all in the service of preserving meaning and stability. But
its outcome is Dionysian: a total collapse of meaning, rationality, and
individuality.
In Titus Groan, power is
exercised by tradition. Its rituals dominate every facet of the lives of the
inhabitants. From the lower class workers, like the kitchen staff or the
carvers, to the earl himself. In contrast, ('good') power in LotR is upheld by
tradition, but exercised actively.
In that sense the power
structure is more Foucauldian.
As previously discussed,
power in Gormenghast has no true face—though Sepulchrave may give the illusion
of one. The labyrinthine castle, with its inaccessible towers, endless
corridors, and inscrutable spaces, imposes discipline and servitude unconsciously.
The quarters of the working class lie low, while those of the Groan family
tower above. The structure itself is a literal embodiment of the hierarchy.
The inhabitants discipline
themselves unconsciously through repetition and conditioning to the system.
Through centuries of tradition and the oppressive, suffocating architecture,
they have become unaware of the very structure that governs them. According to
Foucault, however, there is always some form of resistance against the system.
In Gormenghast, resistance is curiously rare—appearing only in Keda,
Steerpike, and Titus. Is this due to the system’s absurd scale, or is it an
external flaw (an external one, that is, which causes no real harm to the story
or its themes) on Peake’s part?
The spaces determine the
thoughts and actions of those who dwell within them. This is further explored
in the chapter on identity.
The Trial, by Kafka, is ultimately more terrifying than Gormenghast,
for in The Trial, it is suggested that there is no escape from the
system—whereas Titus is, in the end, able to flee. Foucault argues that a
bureaucratic system cannot be conquered, only evaded. And the rules of Gormenghast
are, at least, comprehensible and navigable, whereas those of The Trial
are riddled with contradictions and absurdities. Josef K. attempts to fight the
system from within, which only entangles him further. Steerpike, however,
manipulates the system and eventually overcomes it. Yet it is true that
Steerpike is the only character who truly understands the system—where Josef K.
instead represents the universal man. The bureaucracy of The Trial was
never meant to be understood—and Josef K.’s fatal mistake lies in trying to
understand it. If indeed there is no way out, then the story becomes a wholly
inescapable nightmare.
Still, one could argue
that Peake’s Gormenghast offers a more complete exploration of the
bureaucratic system, since we witness a wide variety of characters, each
responding to that system in different and illuminating ways.
Identity
Introduction
The Apolline system we
call society forces individuals into compliance and condemns those who are not
able to or are dauntless in their idiosyncratic defiance. Most of these systems
offer their subjects bubbles wherein they can exercise a certain amount of
freedom. These bubbles manifest themselves in material, social or cognitive
expressions. The bigger the pressure of the system, the smaller the bubbles,
and the larger the amount of distilled links, where any idea of freedom has
become inapplicable and whose sole purpose lies in performing the function that
was assigned to them – when that function disappears or is in critical
condition, often seen with people who are retiring, the void of their being is
uncovered, which involves a slow and painful process (one of the rare authentic
feelings that is reserved for these poor souls); a pain that can only be
temporarily dulled by escapist resources like TV, sleep and the innumerable
resources our society produces nowadays (alas, I fear, following the logical
plot of the all too predictable capitalism, that the repulsive amount of
escapist trivia is encouraged by an even more terrifying demand).
Inside these bubbles
exists the illusion of freedom whereby the guest expresses himself materially,
socially and cognitively. In most cases, these expressions are controlled and
directed by society. The person thinks he’s expressing his ‘personality’ by buying
products. Thus he manifests his ‘personality’ in space – provided he has been
granted the luck of any reasonable form of shelter and capital --, he furnishes
the space according to his ‘wish’; thus he buys traditional furniture, has his
wall painted full with little flowers, and places a poster of Taylor Swift on
the wall while he neatly arranges Asian plants on the windowsill. Well, you can
see that this doesn’t imply pure individualism, in fact, that the acts of the
person seem to be controlled by sub-systems belonging to the Apolline system;
the guest fills his plate with the food that has been displayed before him,
complies to the expectations of his host, etc. This also extends to the social
life, where the person pursues hobbies like tennis and cycling, ventures on
social media, does the job that has been assigned to him, his ‘leisure’ time is
directed by names like Netflix, Instagram or Supercel. Cognitively, one can see
that the creativity and intellect is being directed and controlled within hyperrealities
(e.g., games, fandoms, etc.), isolated systems with their own set of rules and
complexities where knowledge of them inside the system is of great importance,
but is trivial in reality. To illustrate this we can look at the FPS game
Valorant; people memorize all sorts of strategies and facts that are essential
inside the game and the community, but are rendered completely meaningless in
the outside world.
One can see that the
bubble shrinks in a disturbing – yet, mind
you, sober – and bizarre manner and keeps shrinking and shrinking until the
autonomy of the being has been completely atomized. Under the symptoms of this
sickness fall the utter absence of motivation, interest, passion, desire,
religion, curiosity, imagination, willpower, ambition; and, when they, the
person and the self, are together in thought, do live in neither harmony nor
hate, but in boredom with their own being.
The ultimate autonomous
force does not burst this bubble per se, unless she is of a destructive nature.
The autonomous force can survive perfectly in this bubble and often has no
reason to escape it. She navigates the Apolline system as a sailor navigates
the sea; capable of moving as the waves move, yet equally capable of beating
against them.
Titus Groan
If we apply this to Titus
Groan we recognise in the castle of Gormenghast and all of her laws and rituals
the Apolline system (though with a largely Dionysian outcome). Gormenghast
exercises an immense pressure on all of her subjects. Thus the bubbles are
under pressure materially, socially and cognitively. Her subjects are almost
constantly occupied by ritual or labour that is required by the castle. But for
a number of the main characters of the series this is not the case (namely,
Fuchsia, Steerpike, the Duchess, the Prunesquallors), most of which occupy
large spaces within the castle.
Sepulchrave, the ultimate escapist:
The Sepulchrave’s bubble
is of a unique nature. He is obedient to the castle and fulfils its every
demand. He is, however, probably the only person who understands the castle
best. In the novel, the Earl is described as someone with an innate melancholy,
rather than a melancholy born of circumstances and loneliness. This melancholy
is maybe the consequence of an urge for meaning and orientation, that has would
have accompanied the being of Sepulchrave from the very beginning. From the
start he could not find meaning in the rituals of Gormenghast, in the
accumulation of knowledge (for what is knowledge of the world and the self if
both are rendered irrelevant?) or in relationships (the only one where he could
express himself intellectually was his relationship with the Poet – yet even
those spare interactions appeared to be meaningless, apart from the fact that
they distracted him).
In this regard he is
actually the ultimate escapist. Every activity he undertakes becomes a way of
escaping his melancholy – even the most confrontational activities (reading of
insightful texts and histories, thought, a meeting with his own son, etc.) are
experienced as escapist. This is a representation the modern man, who has the
power to render everything trivial, and to slip away into that triviality if he
cannot find a hold in time.
He experiences alienation
in the Marxist sense; he experiences a distance between himself and what he
does, a lack of control over what he does, a distance between himself and the
people involved in the process, and a lack of meaning in what he does.
Sepulchrave’s eventual
transformation into an owl is most symbolic and tragic. The owl symbolizes
blindness, in contrast to what it usually represents, that is, wisdom, or more
fittingly, seeing; the owl flies away into the darkness, just like the escapist
escapes from the reality and himself. When he burns his library, his hold
disappears, his structures, his escape from reality; he is confronted with an
unbearable pain; a pain he knew all too well and evaded consciously, but had
finally caught up with him. The Apolline disappears, he spirals down into the
Dionysian. When he transforms into an owl, he becomes entirely disconnected
from reality and himself; thus his wish is tragically and ironically fulfilled.
The bubble turns inward,
and just like the fate of its other inhabitants, beneath the oppressive and
suffocating weight of Gormenghast’s boot, the last remnants of identity are
pulverized—swallowed whole in the Dionysian chaos.
Fuchsia, space as a direct
reflection of the unconscious:
Fuchsia is a pure
Dionysian force, trapped within an Apolline system—like a flower rooted in a
pot. Unlike Steerpike, however, she does not understand the castle. Her freedom
is inherently restricted by the system, but she has been granted an attic, a
secluded space where she can exercise that limited freedom. This part of her
bubble is so sheltered and isolated from the Gormenghast and the outside world
that here, truly, a part of her self and soul can manifest without external
judgment. The attic becomes a direct reflection of her subconscious and
identity. When Steerpike enters this space, her entire being is suddenly
subject to outside scrutiny. From that moment on, her space never feels the
same, and she even distances herself from it, as if Steerpike has created a
separation between her and it.
Rodcodd, the Last Man:
In Rodcodd, we recognize
the pure link we discussed earlier. He is so deeply rooted in his function that
he has lost any identity beyond his work-life. He is a perfect embodiment of
Nietzsche’s Last Man. His ‘desire’ is comfort—a warm bed,
predictability, safety, and so on. Anything difficult or dangerous must be
avoided, as exemplified by his relationship with Mr. Flay.
Should his function be
stripped away, Rodcodd would be confronted with a void; there would, in truth,
be nothing left. The horrifying and disquieting thing is how calm and seemingly
content the creature in question so often appears—saturated with comfort and
eternal routine—while inside, the most abhorrent fate that can befall a human
is taking place: autonomy crushed beneath the heel of society, all while a
contented smile rests upon the victim’s face; the final product of a being
drugged with lies and thought-numbing comfort.
Steerpike, the Dionysian force:
Steerpike is a
fundamentally Dionysian force; yet he possesses a strong autonomy—he is
strategic, analytical, and rational, all Apolline traits—but within him writhes
the destructive Dionysian, which he initially suppresses, only to let it emerge
more and more as the story unfolds. He is not subservient to the castle, but
stands in total opposition to the Apolline system, eventually imposing his will
upon it by seizing control; thus his Dionysian urges—domination and
destruction—are given full expression and nourishment. He is a Dionysian
character who employs Apolline tricks to satisfy his primal needs. As I
described earlier through the metaphor of the sailor, he is capable of
surviving within the Apolline system, maintaining the illusion of being a cog
in the machine, while also perfectly able to use the remaining space to work
directly against it—something he could not do if he lacked the former.
Gormenghast as hyperreality:
To return to the idea of
hyperrealities—Gormenghast is, in truth, one vast hyperreality. It is a grand
system of laws and rituals that hold no true significance, whose importance
exists solely within the confines of the system itself. Sourdust and Barquentine,
the ritual masters, can be likened to the Valorant analysts we discussed
earlier; their intellect and creativity are entirely consumed by the
maintenance of the ritual cycle, just as the minds of the analysts are managed
and directed within the closed system of Valorant. The intellectual and
creative potential of these individuals is thus restrained by the boundaries of
the system.
We can also understand
Gormenghast as a hyperreality of bureaucracy—its inhabitants echoing those
ensnared in runaway bureaucracies that, through a series of increasingly
‘rational’ decisions, reach such complexity and absurdity that they lose their
original purpose and humanity. In this way, Gormenghast becomes a deeply
relevant metaphor in a world saturated with hyperrealities and bureaucracies.
If we apply Baudrillard
further to the castle and its inhabitants, we see Fuchsia as one seeking
authenticity in a world of simulacra—much like the modern teenage girl. Her
attraction to Steerpike can thus be explained: he represents something real,
something raw, something outside the system—something that makes her feel
alive, even if his nature is ultimately destructive. When he severs himself
from her, it’s as though she loses her grip on meaning itself, for the one
authentic presence in her hyperreal world, the one thing that gave her life a
sense of significance, disappears—and so she plunges into existential crisis.
The Fellowship of the Ring
The Christian hero?
Middle-earth is a hyperreality—a closed system in
which Tolkien elevates Christian morality to the status of absolute truth. This
construction is necessary, for outside this hyperreality, Tolkien’s Christian
heroes would cease to be heroes at all. He’s draped the Christian figure in
heroic garb—a sheep in wolf’s clothing, to put it softly. The question is: can
we undress this sheep, or has Tolkien wrapped it so tightly in allegory and
aesthetic that not even the finest rhetorical comb can uncover a single strand
of wool? Somehow, I doubt that. Though it does seem far easier to light a
match and watch how the whole thing goes up in flames, mehhh.
At the beginning of the story, the hobbits—Frodo and
Sam included—exhibit several traits of Nietzsche’s Last Man. They
scorn greatness, heroism, ambition, passion and adventure. They prefer simple
comforts, safety, and predictability over self-discovery or confrontation. The Apolline
system has manifested itself so completely that its inhabitants voluntarily
shrink their own bubbles; they turn inward, away from the world and from
themselves. And this troubling image—this culture of withdrawal—is romanticized
by Tolkien.
Frodo and Sam appear to set themselves apart from this
ominous ideal. But do they really? When Frodo receives the Ring, he brings
danger into the Shire—the very thing he, as its loyal inhabitant, wishes to
avoid at all costs. So, is there any real autonomy in his decision to act
against the values of the Shire? Only when faced with extreme necessity and the
highest responsibility—toward the very thing he serves: the Shire and
Middle-earth, that all-encompassing Apolline system—does he decide to act
against his own nature. Is that autonomy? Or is it simply a matter of
temperament? After all, wouldn’t only a truly wicked soul not protect
its mother from pure evil? The same applies to Sam: his sense of duty to his
master, to the Shire, and to Middle-earth determines his actions.
And yet, despite their suffering, there is no real
growth. Frodo ultimately breaks—a profoundly un-Nietzschean ending, but deeply
Christian in tone, mimicking the suffering and passing of Christ.
Christ, however, was an autonomous figure. And, in a
certain sense, even a Übermensch—perhaps the only true Christian
hero in history? He broke with traditional structures, forged his own moral
compass, transcended himself by sacrificing ego and desire for something
greater. He used suffering as a vehicle for transformation, and like Zarathustra
retreating into the mountains, he wandered the desert to later share his wisdom
with mankind. Frodo, by contrast, is not autonomous. He is subject to
tradition, bound by duty, and lacks the will that defines the heroic figure.
His complete surrender to the Dionysian, in his failure to destroy the Ring,
exposes this clearly. And yet Tolkien insists on framing the hobbits as
(unlikely) heroes—which only sharpens the spotlight on his failure as a writer.
Is a cow a hero for eating grass? Is a child a hero
for finishing his plate? Either necessity, either blind obedience to societal
values drives the action. The deed may seem heroic externally, but internally,
it is still compelled. Frodo, like the child at the table, simply consumes what
is given to him. And the parent gives him a nod of approval—not because the
child was hungry, but because he emptied his plate.
Rather than offering a nuanced view of heroism,
Tolkien strips away its foundations and puts nothing substantial in their
place. His work is drenched in slave morality. He attempts to transplant Norse
heroism into a world governed by Christian virtue—and it backfires. As if, in a
moment of madness and superstition, he tried with trembling hands to bring fire
to a cauldron of water. Was Tolkien aware of this? That he had, perhaps
inadvertently, exposed the weaknesses, the cruelties, and the inhumanities of Christianity?
That his work is riddled with contradictions? Could he be the prophet who not
only disarms himself, but also dismantles his own ideology?
If what I’m suggesting holds any truth, then the very
structure of Tolkien’s narrative contains a fault line—one that shifts how we
perceive the entire work.
Take Aragorn, for instance. In Christian theology, he
embodies the messianic figure who brings order and stability to Dionysian
chaos. His suffering mirrors that of Christ; his lonely wandering as the Ranger
echoes the spiritual exile before the ascension to the throne. It all suggests
that true nobility lies in service, not domination.
The Dionysian forces—Sauron and Saruman—are depicted
without nuance, as purely destructive. They seek to impose their will upon the
world, and are thus portrayed as utterly evil. But the Dionysian itself is
never explored in its complexity—it is vilified, flattened, and ultimately
condemned.
Perhaps it is within this fundamental contradiction
that the unintended beauty of the work resides: it does not portray heroism,
but rather the inability to achieve it within a morality that undermines
itself. Tolkien did not write an epic of glory, but a quiet tragedy of
obedience. And alas, maybe it is precisely that—in all its unintentional
honesty—that gives his work a lingering power.
Conclusion
On the Manner of Worldbuilding
The way Tolkien constructs the world of Middle-earth
is almost strictly Apolline; every detail in its proper place, everything
ordered according to a single worldview—namely, Christian morality—everything
arranged in logical harmony. Peake, on the other hand, employs a far more
nuanced approach; the history of the castle and other trivia are fluid, barely
mentioned at all, and both spaces and characters are not always clearly Apolline
or Dionysian—they often float somewhere in between, though spaces are intrinsically
linked to the psyches of the characters.
Measured Against Nietzsche’s Idea of Great
Art
Titus Groan ultimately
becomes a well-balanced fusion of Apolline and Dionysian forces, wherein deeper
existential truths rise to the surface and the search for meaning in an
indifferent world is explored in astonishing ways. One could argue that
the book leans more heavily toward the Dionysian—a point emphasized further in
the next paragraph.
The nature of this
exploration in Titus Groan leans toward the nihilistic: the life-affirming
elements are weaker, rarer, and the book ends without offering a life-affirming
catharsis. Most characters ultimately find no hope or meaning in the Dionysian
chaos. This is even more intensely the case in The Trial, where the reader is
left utterly hopeless, faced with a jarring and painful emptiness. A strong
counterexample of a life-affirming story set in a similarly dark and
indifferent world would be Blade Runner: with only a few, yet powerfully used,
life-affirming moments, the story manages to both undertake an existential
exploration and offer a wondrous, cathartic release (Tears in Rain monologue),
one that helps us confront, process, and even redeem these feelings through
meaning. I believe, based on what I’ve read, that the full Gormenghast trilogy
may well offer something akin to this, though I cannot yet speak to that—having
not yet read the third book.
Yet, this nihilist nature
doesn’t hold the book back in any major way. I mean, one argue that it is a
criticism (or a merit for that matter) -- a criticism you could apply to The
Trial, Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, S.T.A.L.K.E.R., Bosch’s paintings, etc., but
that doesn’t disqualify them as great works of art. Nor does it become a
fundamental criticism.
The tension between the Apolline and the Dionysian
actually creates ambiguity and depth; without this tension you have clarity and
order and structure, but there is no space for the reader to fill in. In Dante
and Milton and Titus Groan this tension is there, in LotR, that is not the
case.
Unlike great writers of Christian works like Dante or
Milton, Tolkien doesn't explore the ambiguous pull between the Apolline and the
Dionysian (Satan, Hell).
Tolkien doesn’t just simplify myth—he sanitizes it, and
actually strips it of its Dionysian essence. The great myths and fantasies
always balanced the Apolline with the Dionysian, even the works Tolkien drew
from, like the Eddas and the Worm Ouroboros, works filled with flawed
characters, contradictions, ambition, passion and pathos. Therefore Tolkien's
work ultimately feels lifeless, rigid, unfantastic, superficial, dispassionate
and mechanistic.
Titus Groan vs. Lord of the Rings
In terms of originality and prose, Tolkien never truly
excelled, as J.G. Keely and Moorcock have argued in their essays.
Their thematic critiques are also fairly strong, though often not specific or
encompassing enough. In this paper, through critical
and profound analysis aided by Nietzschean and postmodern concepts, we have
shown why Titus Groan is thematically the superior text—and also clearly the
more relevant of the two.
One is cloaked in the illusion of universal relevance,
but ultimately proves to be a text steeped in values from a long-gone
age—values that have lost their resonance, and could only gain relevance
through ambiguity and innovation. The other thrives
precisely through such ambiguity and through its mirroring of our modern world
and its trials.
Thus we close this long and painful chapter in the
history of the fantasy genre, and crown Titus Groan as the superior text of the
two. This once again demonstrates that—despite the overwhelming mass of modern
fantasy influenced by Tolkien—there is nothing truly inspiring in Tolkien that
has not already been done better before. This is evidenced too by the best
fantasy works of recent decades, whose finest qualities owe nothing to Tolkien:
among them, Planescape: Torment, Earthsea, Perdido Street Station, the films of
Gilliam, Jordan, Henson and Lucas, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell—and I
could go on, though I would be missing a large number still. The genre has
grown very stale by now, and the same thick volumes continue to crowd the
shelves day after day. Now it’s up to us to explore the fantastic: the grand
and the impossible, the adventurous and the audacious, the passionate and the ambitious,
the strange and dreamlike, the absurd and the grotesque.
LotR is a nostalgic, dogmatic
romanticization of a morality of the past, while Titus
Groan is more relevant,
more urgent, more important. LotR is dualistic,
on the nose, mechanistic—Titus Groan is more
nuanced, more ambiguous, more engaging. LotR is a text of
the past—Titus Groan is a text of the
future.
Bibliography
1)
Peake, M. (1982). Titus Groan.
2)
Peake, M. (1995). The Gormenghast Novels. Harry N. Abrams.
3) Tolkien, J. R. R. (1965). The Fellowship of the Ring
4) Tolkien, J. R. R. (1965). The Two Towers.
5) Tolkien, J. R. R.
(1965). The Lord of the Rings: The return of the king.
6)
Nietzsche, F. W. (1872). The Birth of Tragedy.
7)
Wright, J. C. (n.d.). Review: Titus Groan » John C. Wright’s Journal. https://scifiwright.com/2023/07/review-titus-groan/
8)
J.G. Keely (Albany, NY)’s review of The Fellowship of the
Ring. (2009, May 28). https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/57631270
9)
Curtis. (2024, July 25). Epic Pooh-Pooh. Curtis Weyant. https://www.curtisweyant.com/blog/epic-pooh-pooh/
10) Epic
Pooh, Revised version. Michael Moorcock, (British Fantasy
Society, 1978)
Epic
Pooh, Revised version. Michael Moorcock, (British Fantasy
Society, 1978)
