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Teach yourself Dwarvish: behind Tolkien’s invented languages

From sound aesthetic to Finnegans Wake, a new book explores Tolkien's relationship to language.

Horsemen, barbaric yet noble, chant ­battle cries. Ridge-browed aliens do the same. Their words are harsh and guttural – as warlike as their weapons. Yet the Dothraki, from Game of Thrones, and the Klingons, from Star Trek, are also standard-bearers for an activity that is solitary, cerebral and painstaking: their languages are entirely made up. For the first time since the pre-1914 vogue for “international auxiliary languages” such as Esperanto, Dothraki has helped to make language invention cool.

Unlike Esperanto, Dothraki and Klingon were not created as communication aids. You can read Hamlet in Klingon, but the language was devised solely to lend a space opera atmosphere and realism. As with Dothraki, its complex grammar and substantial lexicon are far less important than its distinctive, evocative sound. And “sound aesthetic” is central to the older inventions of J R R Tolkien, without whom neither Dothraki nor Klingon is likely to have been conceived. In The Lord of the Rings, we read elegies in Elvish (“Ai! Laurië lantar lassi súrinen . . .”), battle cries in Dwarvish (“Khazâd ai-mênu!”) and slander in Orkish (“Uglúk u bagronk sha pushdug Saruman-glob búbhosh skai”).

Like a linguist version of the ­super-sniffing hero of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume, Tolkien wanted to bottle the essence of languages. It is because of this – and his realisation that a language needs a mythology or culture to “live” – that we have Middle-earth. But he had been tinkering with his languages and mythology for more than two decades before The Hobbit revealed a handful of names in what he came to call the Sindarin tongue: Elrond, Gondolin, Orcrist.

It is only thanks to a talk that he gave in 1931 at his Oxford college, Pembroke, that we have his considered thoughts on language invention. From its title, “A Secret Vice”, onwards, he strikes a note of embarrassment: “I may be like an opium-smoker seeking a moral or medical or artistic defence for his habit.”

It was indeed a long-standing obsession. Although the editors of this new critical edition place his earliest inventions in his mid-teens, Tolkien told one interviewer that he began when he was eight or nine. His talk is a vigorous defence of the “hobby” and, with the support of the background commentaries provided by Dimitra Fimi and Andrew Higgins, it becomes clear that the invention of languages has been a surprisingly widespread activity. A Secret Vice is a thoroughly engaging introduction for the outsider.

Tolkien describes hearing a fellow officer in a dull First World War army lecture exclaim dreamily, “Yes, I think I shall express the accusative case by a prefix!” Whether or not this is Tolkien in fictional guise, the scene is nicely conjured. “How far he ever proceeded in his composition, I never heard. Probably he was blown to bits in the very moment of deciding upon some ravishing method of indicating the subjunctive. Wars are not favourable to delicate pleasures.”

The first language that Tolkien describes, Animalic, was the concoction of two cousins in which “Dog nightingale woodpecker forty” meant: “You are an ass.” Tolkien takes us from this simple substitution code through common argots such as pig Latin (“Ellohay, owhay areyay ouyay?”) to Nevbosh, composed of twisted bits of Latin and French in his early teens. He notes that a few words in Nevbosh were pure inventions – sound clusters that seemed peculiarly fit for their meaning. That leads him on to “sound symbolism”: the idea that even beyond onomatopoeia, we naturally associate certain sounds with certain meanings.

The editors reproduce a short essay in which Tolkien makes an impressive case against the idea but then affirms his conviction in its (unprovable) truth. It was, after all, the method he used for devising his Elvish vocabularies. There is also a glimpse of a previously unknown Tolkienian language – reminiscent (as he says) of the scattered names in Gulliver’s Travels (Blefuscu, Brobdingnag). The most surprising thing about it, coming from Tolkien, is its ugliness.

That is far removed from the Elvish poems he provided as samples of fully realised language invention. He is overcritical in pointing out “their tendency, too free as they were from cold exterior criticism, to be ‘over-pretty’ . . . while their bare meaning is probably trivial, not full of red blood or the heat of the world such as critics demand”. The editors remind us that this was the era of Gertrude Stein’s call to “kill” the 19th century, of Ezra Pound’s exhortation to “make it new”. Tolkien’s samples are mythic in mode but I suspect that they were very much the product of blood and the heat of the world. His apocalyptic Elvish verse about a “last ark” with a bellyful of pale ghosts wailing like gulls (“Man kiluva kirya ninqe/oilima ailinello lúte . . .”) makes me think of the hospital ship that carried Second Lieutenant Tolkien in a fever from France after the Battle of the Somme.

This edition includes not only the 1931 paper but also the various notes that Tolkien made in preparing it. It’s a mishmash, with something for the Elvish buff and something for those who enjoy unlikely cultural collisions. A good example of the latter is a note by Tolkien on the “Anna Livia Plurabelle” section of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. One of the 20th century’s great mythographers and language jugglers writing about another – it could be a gold mine. Tolkien considers the problems of separating the “music” of language from its communicative functions but he is musing to himself in a rapid, ill-formed hand. So Tolkien on Joyce is elliptical, in places opaque – which seems simultaneously ironic and apt.

John Garth is Fellow in Humanistic Studies at the Beverly Rogers, Carol C Harter Black Mountain Institute in Nevada, as well as the author of Tolkien and the Great War (HarperCollins)

A Secret Vice: Tolkien on Invented Languages , edited by Dimitra Fimi and Andrew Higgins, is published by HarperCollins (223pp, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 14 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The making of a monster

The Depths of Hell
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Review: “Self-Portrait as Hairless Dog”, Alex Jones, 2018

Jones’s burners are off, but his face shows no fear: here is a creature that would luxuriate in hellfire as if it were as pleasurable as a hot shower.

The self-portrait as self-abasement has a long history in art: Caravaggio gave his own face to the severed head of Goliath being held aloft by the young sword-wielding David; Stanley Spencer once depicted his sunken haunches, grey skin and squashed genitalia (alongside his wife’s sagging body) next to a carefully depicted leg of mutton; Michelangelo meanwhile showed himself as an empty flayed skin in The Last Judgement  in the Sistine Chapel.

What to make, then, of the mocked-up photograph currently scarring Twitter’s collective eyeballs which the radio host, conspiracy theorist and provocateur Alex Jones posted, portraying him as a hairless dog lying on a kitchen hob?

This strange, Hieronymus Bosch monster, stares expressionless at the viewer anticipating a moue of distaste. The Jones-hound is unapologetic, fleshily pink in a pose that carries uncomfortable references to Renaissance nudes.

Titian’s Venus D’Urbino shows a voluptuously sensual woman: the thoughts she is meant to evoke can only be carnal. But it is harder to see the Jones image, however coquettish, as drawing the panting male gaze. Is his nakedness a reminder that we are all born of original sin and creatures of shame, like Adam and Eve expelled from the Garden of Eden? Is his canine persona an acknowledgement that we nothing but animals?

The kitchen hob on which this squidgy hybrid lounges clearly alludes to the flames of hell. Rogier van der Weyden showed the flames licking at terrified sinners in his Last Judgement of 1450: this, he says, is what happens to those who err from the ways of the Bible. Jones’s burners are off, but his face shows no fear: here is a creature that would luxuriate in hellfire as if it were as pleasurable as a hot shower.

It is hard not to interpret the Caravaggio, Spencer and Michelangelo depictions other than as as expressions of self-loathing, of a disgust so profound it came to the fore almost despite themselves. Jones, though, looks complacent, even contented. Medieval bestiaries are full of such fanciful creatures; often they are emblems of evil, the Devil’s playthings that are beyond redemption and settled in their fallen state. This, perhaps, is closer to the truth.

However, the cleverness of the image ultimately lies in something it doesn’t show. The animal’s plump tail covers, almost coyly, its genitals and what Jones’s expression says is: don’t worry, if you are looking for bollocks, well, that’s me.

Michael Prodger is Reviews Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.