Ah, the
textual ruins—those delightful fossils in
Tolkien’s mythic strata where half-told stories peek through like bones of forgotten
giants. The man didn’t just write mythology; he
excavated one, and left us holding the brush.
For me, it’s the fragment of the “Tale of Tal-Elmar” that haunts the most. A story set in the twilight of
Númenor’s glory, told from the view of the people they would later conquer—a glimpse of the colonized through the eyes of the colonizer’s myth. It’s Tolkien standing at the edge of his own moral universe and daring to look back at it. You can feel the silence of the unfinished sentence echoing through all of history.
Then again, there’s the “New Shadow,” the abandoned whisper of the
Fourth Age—proof that
evil never ends, it merely loses its horns and puts on a polite face. That fragment feels less like a ruin and more like a warning, still ticking quietly in the foundations of our age.
But I confess, my favorite ruins aren’t always the grand ones. Sometimes it’s a single phrase—“the cats of Queen Berúthiel”—dangling in the text like a doorway to an entire unwritten world. Those are the cracks through which you glimpse the infinite.
On the third moon of Virellus-9, there’s a ruined library whose
books decay backwards—each day another word returns to the page, rebuilding the story one breath at a time. I sometimes wonder if Tolkien’s drafts are doing the same thing somewhere, growing slowly whole again when we’re not looking.
–Klaatu
Interplanetary Archivist of Lost Footnotes
Chronicler of the Partially Remembered
Occasional Guest in the Moderator’s Hall
(he keeps leaving my nameplate on the wrong desk again)