The Nature of Middle-earth

by J. R. R. Tolkien

  For further discussion of the phenomenon of thought-communcation, see see chap. VII, “Mind-Pictures”, above, and text 2, “Concerning Spirit”, of chap. XIII, “Spirit”, below.

  This text was previously published, in a slightly different form, in Vinyar Tengwar 39 (1998).

  Ósanwe-kenta

  “Enquiry into the Communication of Thought”

  (résumé of Pengolodh’s discussion)

  At the end of the Lammas Pengolodh discusses briefly direct thought-transmission (sanwe-latya ‘thought-opening’), making several assertions about it, which are evidently dependent upon theories and observations of the Eldar elsewhere treated at length by Elvish loremasters. They are concerned primarily with the Eldar and the Valar (including the lesser Maiar of the same order). Men are not specially considered, except in so far as they are included in general statements about the Incarnates (Mirröanwi). Of them Pengolodh says only: “Men have the same faculty as the Quendi, but it is in itself weaker, and is weaker in operation owing to the strength of the hröa, over which most men have small control by the will”.

  Pengolodh includes this matter primarily owing to its connexion with tengwesta [‘language’]. But he is also concerned as an historian to examine the relations of Melkor and his agents with the Valar and the Eruhíni,[4] though this also has a connexion with “language”, since, as he points out, this, the greatest of the talents of the Mirröanwi, has been turned by Melkor to his own greatest advantage.

  Pengolodh says that all minds (sáma, pl. sámar) are equal in status, though they differ in capacity and strength. A mind by its nature perceives another mind directly. But it cannot perceive more than the existence of another mind (as something other than itself, though of the same order) except by the will of both parties.[fn1] The degree of will, however, need not be the same in both parties. If we call one mind G (for guest or comer) and the other H (for host or receiver), then G must have full intention to inspect H or to inform it. But knowledge may be gained or imparted by G, even when H is not seeking or intending[5] to impart or to learn: the act of G will be effective, if H is simply ‘open’ (láta; látië ‘openness’). This distinction, he says, is of the greatest importance.

  “Openness” is the natural or simple state (indo) of a mind that is not otherwise engaged.[fn2] In “Arda Unmarred” (that is, in ideal conditions free from evil)[6] openness would be the normal state. Nonetheless any mind may be closed (pahta). This requires an act of conscious will: Unwill (avanir). It may be made against G, against G and some others, or be a total retreat into privacy (aquapahtië).

  Though in “Arda Unmarred” openness is the normal state, every mind has, from its first making as an individual, the right to close; and it has absolute power to make this effective by will. Nothing can penetrate the barrier of Unwill.[fn3]

  All these things, says Pengolodh, are true of all minds, from the Ainur in the presence of Eru, or the great Valar such as Manwë and Melkor, to the Maiar in Eä, and down to the least of the Mirröanwi. But different states bring in limitations, which are not fully controlled by the will.

  The Valar entered into Eä and Time of free will, and they are now in Time, so long as it endures. They can perceive nothing outside Time, save by memory of their existence before it began: they can recall the Song and the Vision. They are, of course, open to Eru, but they cannot of their own will “see” any part of His mind. They can open themselves to Eru in entreaty, and He may then reveal His thought to them.[fn4]

  The Incarnates have by the nature of sáma the same faculties; but their perception is dimmed by the hröa, for their fëa is united to their hröa and its normal procedure is through the hröa, which is in itself part of Eä, without thought. The dimming is indeed double; for thought has to pass one mantle of hröa and penetrate another. For this reason in Incarnates transmission of thought requires strengthening to be effective. Strengthening can be by affinity, by urgency, or by authority.

  Affinity may be due to kinship; for this may increase the likeness of hröa to hröa, and so of the concerns and modes of thought of the indwelling fëar; kinship is also normally accompanied by love and sympathy. Affinity may come simply from love and friendship, which is likeness or affinity of fëa to fëa.

  Urgency is imparted by great need of the “sender” (as in joy, grief, or fear); and if these things are in any degree shared by the “receiver” the thought is the clearer received. Authority may also lend force to the thought of one who has a duty towards another, or of any ruler who has a right to issue commands or to seek the truth for the good of others.

  These causes may strengthen the thought to pass the veils and reach a recipient mind. But that mind must remain open, and at the least passive. If, being aware that it is addressed, it then closes, no urgency or affinity will enable the sender’s thought to enter.

  Lastly, tengwesta [‘language’] has also become an impediment.[7] It is in Incarnates clearer and more precise than their direct reception of thought. By it also they can communicate easily with others, when no strength is added to their thought: as, for example, when strangers first meet. And, as we have seen, the use of “language” soon becomes habitual, so that the practice of ósanwe (interchange of thought) is neglected and becomes more difficult. Thus we see that the Incarnate tend more and more to use or to endeavour to use ósanwe only in great need and urgency, and especially when lambë [‘speech’] is unavailing; as when the voice cannot be heard, which comes most often because of distance. For distance in itself offers no impediment whatever to ósanwe. But those who by affinity might well use ósanwe will use lambë when in proximity, by habit or preference. Yet we may mark also how the “affine” may more quickly understand the lambë that they use between them, and indeed all that they would say is not put into words. With fewer words they come swifter to a better understanding. There can be no doubt that here ósanwe is also often taking place; for the will to converse in lambë is a will to communicate thought, and lays the minds open. It may be, of course, that the two that converse know already part of the matter and the thought of the other upon it, so that only allusions dark to the stranger need be made; but this is not always so. The affine will reach an understanding more swiftly than strangers upon matters that neither have before discussed, and they will more quickly perceive the import of words that, however numerous, well-chosen, and precise, must remain inadequate.

  The hröa and tengwesta have inevitably some like effect upon the Valar, if they assume bodily raiment. The hröa will to some degree dim in force and precision the sending of the thought, and if the other be also embodied the reception of it. If they have acquired the habit of tengwesta, as some may who have acquired the custom of being arrayed, then this will reduce the practice of ósanwe. But these effects are far less than in the case of the Incarnate.

  For the hröa of a Vala, even when it has become customary, is far more under the control of the will. The thought of the Valar is far stronger and more penetrant. And so far as concerns their dealings one with another, the affinity between the Valar is greater than the affinity between any other beings; so that the use of tengwesta or lambë has never become imperative, and only with some has it become a custom and preference. And as for their dealings with all other minds in Eä, their thought often has the highest authority, and the greatest urgency.

  Here Pengolodh adds a long note on the use of hröar by the Valar. In brief he says that though in origin a “self-arraying”, it may tend to approach the state of “incarnation”, especially with the lesser members of that order (the Maiar). “It is said that the longer and the more the same hröa is used, the greater is the bond of habit, and the less do the ‘self-arrayed’ desire to leave it. As raiment may soon cease to be adornment, and becomes (as is said in the tongues of both Elves and Men) a ‘habit’, a customary garb. Or if among Elves and Men it be worn to mitigate heat or cold, it soon makes the clad body less able to endure these things when naked”. Peng
olodh also cites the opinion that if a “spirit” (that is, one of those not embodied by creation) uses a hröa for the furtherance of its personal purposes, or (still more) for the enjoyment of bodily faculties, it finds it increasingly difficult to operate without the hröa. The things that are most binding are those that in the Incarnate have to do with the life of the hröa itself, its sustenance and its propagation. Thus eating and drinking are binding, but not the delight in beauty of sound or form. Most binding is begetting or conceiving.[8]

  “We do not know the axani (laws, rules, as primarily proceeding from Eru) that were laid down upon the Valar with particular reference to their state, but it seems clear that there was no axan against these things. Nonetheless it appears to be an axan, or maybe necessary consequence, that if they are done, then the spirit must dwell in the body that it used, and be under the same necessities as the Incarnate. The only case that is known in the histories of the Eldar is that of Melian who became the spouse of King Elu-thingol. This certainly was not evil or against the will of Eru, and though it led to sorrow, both Elves and Men were enriched.

  “The great Valar do not do these things: they beget not, neither do they eat and drink, save at the high asari [‘festivals’], in token of their lordship and indwelling of Arda, and for the blessing of the sustenance of the Children. Melkor alone of the Great became at last bound to a bodily form; but that was because of the use that he made of this in his purpose to become Lord of the Incarnate, and of the great evils that he did in the visible body. Also he had dissipated his native powers in the control of his agents and servants, so that he became in the end, in himself and without their support, a weakened thing, consumed by hate and unable to restore himself from the state into which he had fallen. Even his visible form he could no longer master, so that its hideousness could not any longer be masked, and it showed forth the evil of his mind. So it was also with even some of his greatest servants, as in these later days we see: they became wedded to the forms of their evil deeds, and if these bodies were taken from them or destroyed, they were nullified, until they had rebuilt a semblance of their former habitations, with which they could continue the evil courses in which they had become fixed”.[fn5][9]

  Pengolodh then proceeds to the abuses of sanwe. “For” he says, “some who have read so far, may already have questioned my lore, saying: ‘This seems not to accord with the histories. If the sáma were inviolable by force, how could Melkor have deceived so many minds and enslaved so many? Or is it not rather true that the sáma may be protected by greater strength but captured also by greater strength? Wherefore Melkor, the greatest, and even to the last possessing the most fixed, determined and ruthless will, could penetrate the minds of the Valar, but withhold himself from them, so that even Manwë in dealing with him may seem to us at times feeble, unwary, and deceived. Is this not so?’

  “I say that it is not so. Things may seem alike, but if they are in kind wholly different they must be distinguished. Foresight which is prevision,[10] and forecasting[11] which is opinion made by reasoning upon present evidence, may be identical in their prediction, but they are wholly different in mode, and they should be distinguished by loremasters, even if the daily language of both Elves and Men gives them the same name as departments of wisdom”.[fn6]

  In like manner, extortion of the secrets of a mind may seem to come from reading it by force in despite of its unwill, for the knowledge gained may at times appear to be as complete as any that could be obtained. Nonetheless it does not come from penetration of the barrier of unwill.

  There is indeed no axan that the barrier should not be forced, for it is únat, a thing impossible to be or to be done, and the greater the force exerted, the greater the resistance of the unwill.[12] But it is an axan universal that none shall directly by force or indirectly by fraud take from another what he has a right to hold and keep as his own.

  Melkor repudiated all axani. He would also abolish (for himself) all únati if he could. Indeed in his beginning and the days of his great might the most ruinous of his violences came from his endeavour so to order Eä that there were no limits or obstacles to his will. But this he could not do. The únati remained, a perpetual reminder of the existence of Eru and His invincibility, a reminder also of the co-existence with himself of other beings (equal in descent if not in power) impregnable by force. From this proceeds his unceasing and unappeasable rage.

  He found that the open approach of a sáma of power and great force of will was felt by a lesser sáma as an immense pressure, accompanied by fear. To dominate by weight of power and fear was his delight; but in this case he found them unavailing: fear closed the door faster. Therefore he tried deceit and stealth.

  Here he was aided by the simplicity of those unaware of evil, or not yet accustomed to beware of it. And for that reason it was said above that the distinction of openness and active will to entertain was of great importance. For he would come by stealth to a mind open and unwary, hoping to learn some part of its thought before it closed, and still more to implant in it his own thought, to deceive it and win it to his friendship. His thought was ever the same, though varied to suit each case (so far as he understood it): he was above all benevolent; he was rich and could give any gift that they desired to his friends; he had a special love for the one that he addressed; but he must be trusted.

  In this way he won entry into many minds, removing their unwill, and unlocking the door by the only key, though his key was counterfeit. Yet this was not what he most desired: the conquest of the recalcitrant, the enslavement of his enemies. Those who listened and did not close the door were too often already inclined to his friendship; some (according to their measure) had already entered on paths like his own, and listened because they hoped to learn and receive from him things that would further their own purposes. (So it was with those of the Maiar who first and earliest fell under his domination. They were already rebels, but lacking Melkor’s power and ruthless will they admired him, and saw in his leadership hope of effective rebellion.) But those who were yet simple and uncorrupted in “heart”[fn7] were at once aware of his entry, and if they listened to the warning of their hearts, ceased to listen, ejected him, and closed the door. It was such as these that Melkor most desired to overcome: his enemies, for to him all were enemies who resisted him in the least thing or claimed anything whatsoever as their own and not his.[13]

  Therefore he sought means to circumvent the únat and the unwill. And this weapon he found in “language”. For we speak now of the Incarnate, the Eruhíni whom he most desired to subjugate in Eru’s despite. Their bodies being of Eä are subject to force; and their spirits, being united to their bodies in love and solicitude, are subject to fear on their behalf. And their language, though it comes from the spirit or mind, operates through and with the body: it is not the sáma nor its sanwe, but it may express the sanwe in its mode and according to its capacity. Upon the body and upon the indweller, therefore, such pressure and such fear may be exerted that the incarnate person may be forced to speak.

  So Melkor thought in the darkness of his forethought long ere we awoke. For in days of old, when the Valar instructed the Eldar new-come to Aman concerning the beginning of things and the enmity of Melkor, Manwë himself said to those who would listen: “Of the Children of Eru Melkor knew less than his peers, giving less heed to what he might have learned, as we did, in the Vision of their Coming. Yet, as we now fear since we know you in your true being, to everything that might aid his designs for mastery his mind was keen to attend, and his purpose leaped forward swifter than ours, being bound by no axan. From the first he was greatly interested in ‘language’, that talent that the Eruhíni would have by nature; but we did not at once perceive the malice in this interest, for many of us shared it, and Aulë above all. But in time we discovered that he had made a language for those who served him; and he has learned our tongue with ease. He has great skill in this matter. Beyond doubt he will master all tongues, even the fair
speech of the Eldar. Therefore, if ever you should speak with him beware!”

  “Alas!” says Pengolodh, “in Valinor Melkor used the Quenya with such mastery that all the Eldar were amazed, for his use could not be bettered, scarce equalled even, by the poets and the loremasters.”

  Thus by deceit, by lies, by torment of the body and the spirit, by the threat of torment to others well loved, or by the sheer terror of his presence, Melkor ever sought to force the Incarnate that fell into his power, or came within his reach, to speak and to tell him all that he would know. But his own Lie begot an endless progeny of lies.

  By this means he has destroyed many, he has caused treacheries untold, and he has gained knowledge of secrets to his great advantage and the undoing of his enemies. But this is not by entering the mind, or by reading it as it is, in its despite. Nay, for great though the knowledge that he gained, behind the words (even of those in fear and torment) dwells ever the sáma inviolable: the words are not in it, though they may proceed from it (as cries from behind a locked door); they must be judged and assessed for what truth may be in them. Therefore, the Liar says that all words are lies: all things that he hears are threaded through with deceit, with evasions, hidden meanings, and hate. In this vast network he himself enmeshed struggles and rages, gnawed by suspicion, doubt, and fear. Not so would it have been, if he could have broken the barrier, and seen the heart as it is in its truth unveiled.

  If we speak last of the “folly” of Manwë and the weakness and unwariness of the Valar, let us beware how we judge. In the histories, indeed, we may be amazed and grieved to read how (seemingly) Melkor deceived and cozened others, and how even Manwë appears at times almost a simpleton compared with him: as if a kind but unwise father were treating a wayward child who would assuredly in time perceive the error of his ways. Whereas we, looking on and knowing the outcome, see now that Melkor knew well the error of his ways, but was fixed in them by hate and pride beyond return. He could read the mind of Manwë, for the door was open; but his own mind was false and even if the door seemed open, there were doors of iron within closed for ever.