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Alternative Tolkien - D.H. Lawrence
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D.H. Lawrence:
Sauron knew himself to be evil; he knew himself to be the equal, if not far the superior, of anyone he was likely to meet in Middle Earth. He knew he was accepted in the world of evil and of power. He was a Dark Lord, a medium for the spreading of evil. With all that was highest, whether in society or in thought or in public action, or even in forging magic rings, he was at one, he moved among the foremost, at home with them. No one could put him down, no one could make a mock of him, because he stood among the first, and those that were below him, either in rank, or in wealth, or in high association of thought and progress and understanding. So, he was invulnerable. All his life, he had sought to make himself invulnerable, unassailable, beyond reach of Middle Earth's judgement.
And yet his soul was tortured, exposed. Even in his tower of Barad-Dur, confident as he was that in every respect he stood beyond all vulgar judgement, knowing perfectly that his appearance was complete and perfect, according to the first standards, yet he suffered a torture, under his confidence and his pride, feeling himself exposed to wounds and to mockery and to despite. He always felt vulnerable, vulnerable, there was always a secret chink in his armour. He did not know himself what it was. It was a lack of robust self, he had no natural sufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of being within him.
And he wanted something to close up this deficiency, to close it up forever. He craved for his ring. When it was on his finger, he felt complete, he was sufficient, whole. For the rest of time he was established on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all his vanities and securities, any common hobbit of positive, robust temper could fling him down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by the slightest toss of the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. And all the while the pensive, tortured Dark Lord piled up his own defenses of orcs, and Nazgul, and palantir-visions, and disinterestedness. Yet he could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency.
If only the ring would form a close and abiding connection with him, he would be safe during this fretful voyage of life. It could make him sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very wizards of Middle Earth. If only he could claim it! But he was tortured with fear, with misgiving. He made himself frightening, he strove so hard to come to that degree of fearfulness and advantage, when he should be so convinced. But always there was a deficiency.
The current Ringbearer was perverse too. He fought him off, he always fought him off. The more he strove to bring the ring back to him, the more the hobbit battled him back. And he and the ring had been lovers now, for years. Oh, it was so wearying, so aching; he was so tired. But still he believed in himself. He knew the hobbit was trying to destroy the ring. He knew the halfling was trying to break away from its hold finally, to be free. But still Sauron believed in his strength to recapture the ring, he believed in his own higher power. His own power was high, he was the central touchstone of evil. He only needed his conjunction with the ring.
Followed by 450 more pages of navel-gazing, self-important characters who do little else than talk to each other...
D.H. Lawrence:
Sauron knew himself to be evil; he knew himself to be the equal, if not far the superior, of anyone he was likely to meet in Middle Earth. He knew he was accepted in the world of evil and of power. He was a Dark Lord, a medium for the spreading of evil. With all that was highest, whether in society or in thought or in public action, or even in forging magic rings, he was at one, he moved among the foremost, at home with them. No one could put him down, no one could make a mock of him, because he stood among the first, and those that were below him, either in rank, or in wealth, or in high association of thought and progress and understanding. So, he was invulnerable. All his life, he had sought to make himself invulnerable, unassailable, beyond reach of Middle Earth's judgement.
And yet his soul was tortured, exposed. Even in his tower of Barad-Dur, confident as he was that in every respect he stood beyond all vulgar judgement, knowing perfectly that his appearance was complete and perfect, according to the first standards, yet he suffered a torture, under his confidence and his pride, feeling himself exposed to wounds and to mockery and to despite. He always felt vulnerable, vulnerable, there was always a secret chink in his armour. He did not know himself what it was. It was a lack of robust self, he had no natural sufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of being within him.
And he wanted something to close up this deficiency, to close it up forever. He craved for his ring. When it was on his finger, he felt complete, he was sufficient, whole. For the rest of time he was established on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all his vanities and securities, any common hobbit of positive, robust temper could fling him down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by the slightest toss of the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. And all the while the pensive, tortured Dark Lord piled up his own defenses of orcs, and Nazgul, and palantir-visions, and disinterestedness. Yet he could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency.
If only the ring would form a close and abiding connection with him, he would be safe during this fretful voyage of life. It could make him sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very wizards of Middle Earth. If only he could claim it! But he was tortured with fear, with misgiving. He made himself frightening, he strove so hard to come to that degree of fearfulness and advantage, when he should be so convinced. But always there was a deficiency.
The current Ringbearer was perverse too. He fought him off, he always fought him off. The more he strove to bring the ring back to him, the more the hobbit battled him back. And he and the ring had been lovers now, for years. Oh, it was so wearying, so aching; he was so tired. But still he believed in himself. He knew the hobbit was trying to destroy the ring. He knew the halfling was trying to break away from its hold finally, to be free. But still Sauron believed in his strength to recapture the ring, he believed in his own higher power. His own power was high, he was the central touchstone of evil. He only needed his conjunction with the ring.
Followed by 450 more pages of navel-gazing, self-important characters who do little else than talk to each other...