I have loved J. R. R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings series since I was ten and revisit it often. Each time I have reread the books, I have enjoyed them anew and been amazed at how different they seem with each reading. This is surely true of many great books, but with The Lord of the Rings, my encounters with the familiar story have all been so distinct that it seems as if the story itself has changed somehow. Yet when I reread the novels in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, they failed to give me the kind of comfort I had come to expect from them.
When I first read the books as a child, I wanted to be Gandalf, and I strode through the woods near my house in a Philadelphia suburb with a staff drawn from a tree branch that granted me power to blast my enemies: a pure childhood yearning for the respect, influence, and authority I lacked as a fifth grader and a younger brother. Reading by flashlight hours past my bedtime, I imagined standing my ground on the stone bridge in Khazad-dûm before the terrifying Balrog. No one else had the strength to stop this enemy, but I was prepared to protect the fellowship even though it might cost me my life, as it did Gandalf’s. In the dark, early morning hours, I imagined living up to Gandalf’s ideals: his sacrifice and the resurrection that naturally followed proved his courage and pure heart were too great to be contained by death.
As a teenager, however, I identified with the Elves: wise and learned in their secluded forest havens. At fifteen, I spent most of my free time reading. I related to the Elves who recounted ancient poems of love, courage, and loss, and I wanted to connect with people who also valued such works of art. I was a loner who found in books the companionship I lacked, and in Tolkien’s novels I befriended an entire fellowship. The unlikely friendship between Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf especially resonated with me. Their ability to look past each other’s differences and forge an unbreakable bond gave me hope of finding similar friendships. And, sure enough, once past the turmoil of high school cliques, I did.
In college, I read The Lord of the Rings from the perspective of its human characters. In Tolkien’s novels, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was born the rightful king of the twin realms of Gondor and Arnor. He stepped up to the impossible demands of his birthright and proved he deserved to rule the kingdom by the story’s conclusion. Of course, life doesn’t provide this kind of clarity, but within the pages of Tolkien’s books, it did, and it brought me comfort to see the world through its simplifying lens. Aragorn made me feel like it was time for me to rise to the challenge of becoming the person I wanted to be; when I applied to graduate school, I was the protagonist of my own heroic narrative. I wanted to become a professor and, in my mind, the road to that future ran through the harrowing terrain of its own Middle-earth.
Ultimately, I completed my degree, got a job in Boston, earned tenure, and went more than ten years without reading Tolkien’s novels. I had reached the heart of Orodruin, Mount Doom, in the land of Mordor, and cast the ring into the fire from which it was forged. My quest was complete. Or so it seemed.
I picked up my worn copies of The Lord of the Rings again in my early forties, when I became father to newborn twins. I struggled to balance the responsibilities of work with being a good parent and husband. Happily, I found a new comfort in Tolkein’s novels, again, particularly in the story of the Hobbits. Alone among the denizens of Middle-earth, Hobbits covet neither treasure nor power. Rather, they relish the company of family and friends; they enjoy good food and beer. I had previously admired the Hobbits’ courage in the face of impossible adversity, but now I recognized that they fought for the opportunity to protect and return to the simple world of their humble community. So I rededicated myself to my children and my wife. I accepted that work would have to come second.
Most recently, I returned to The Lord of the Rings in April 2020. COVID was rampant, filling emergency rooms past capacity and killing so many people that makeshift morgues had to absorb the sudden overflow of corpses. Across the country and around the world, families were urged to quarantine and wear masks. My twins’ school had closed abruptly. The university where I work had closed, too, and faculty like me were instructed to figure out how to teach the remainder of our classes online. In one month, the COVID crisis had transformed the world and my own life.
It was a frightening time. I have long been a jogger, and I wanted to mitigate my anxious energy with long runs. On these runs, I listened to the familiar story of The Lord of the Rings while following the familiar paths near my home. Jogging north along Forest Street and proceeding up the Fellsway, I was surrounded by the trees and green of the Middlesex Fells Reservation. The buds of spring seemed to defy the season of death that was spreading across the world. In my mind, the Fells became Lothlórien, the most beautiful of Elven dwellings in Middle-earth. Known for its inimitable trees, Lothlórien exists outside of time as a bastion of untarnished good and light in despite of the threatening darkness that surrounds it.
The peace my own Lothlórien provided, however, was fleeting. I found it harder and harder to engage the hopeful readings that had characterized my previous experiences with the novel. I couldn’t read the books as Gandalf; I had no magic or power with which to protect my fellowship. The Elves were locked in their enclaves as darkness surrounded them, like the physicians in hospitals and scientists in labs scrabbling for solutions. There seemed no place at all for Hobbits; their brave determination to fight for kith and kin felt futile while all stayed quarantined in our own Hobbit holes. Likewise, the world of men seemed lost and forlorn.
Just as Gondor had gone generations without a true king, here in the US, our president fractured our country against itself.
Now, for the first time in my life, I felt the fear that the fellowship experienced when it confronted the dark lord Sauron. In The Lord of the Rings, Sauron has no body. He is a malevolent force. Nowhere is safe as the followers of Sauron infiltrate and destroy cities, forests, and homes across Middle-earth. At the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, Frodo the Hobbit climbs the high ground at Amon Hen, the Hill of the Eye of the Men of Númenor, and sees that no direction provides solace: “everywhere he looked he saw the signs of war. The Misty Mountains were crawling like anthills: orcs were issuing out of a thousand holes. Under the boughs of Mirkwood there was deadly strife of Elves and Men and fell beasts. The land of the Beornings was aflame; a cloud was over Moria; smoke rose on the borders of Lórien.” All Frodo could hope to do was run and hide.
And that’s what I did. I ran, and I quarantined in my house.
One day, I ran through Medford. Heading south down Forest Street, I crossed High Street and hit the one-mile mark just as I turned west along Mystic Valley Parkway. The streets were deserted. Further along, I saw no one on the trail that ran alongside the Mystic River. The beauty of the river’s running water usually buoyed me, but on that day, it felt cold and unnerving. When I passed Whole Foods, I saw essential workers putting bags of food on the curb. Cars drove up and people slipped out wearing masks and rubber gloves to silently fill their trunks before slamming the doors and retreating back into their homes.
I had started to sweat, but my anxious energy needed more. I turned right and headed onto the Alewife Greenway Bike Path. Peering over my mask as I ran, the tiny trail’s public gardens and quiet stream were welcome sights, and my muscles finally began to surrender the fear held deep in their fibers. But then, not fifteen feet away, another runner was coming toward me. Panic struck.
He wore black shorts, a dark blue, long-sleeved running shirt, and a black cloth mask that left his nose uncovered. Tall and thin, he stared through me as he rapidly approached, the path too narrow to maintain safe distance. My heart started to pound. The sound of rushing blood filled my ears; fear constricted my vision. I frantically scanned for an escape but to the left was the stream and to the right was a three-foot drop into thick bushes. Out of options, I held my breath, turned my head away from the enemy and sped up to pass him. I felt his hot presence on my left. My lungs started to burn, and I could barely see the path in front of me, but I refused to take a breath until I knew the danger had passed. Seconds crawled by, it became too much, and I fell to my knees. Gasping for air, I trembled with fright. Sweat poured off my face, drenching my mask, and I tore it off.
Breathing hard, still on all fours, I looked around and, to my surprise, found that I was alone. The sounds of the stream bubbled nearby.
Still shaking, I made myself stand. I put my mask back on and started to walk along the winding path that would take me home. Only then did I realize The Lord of the Rings was still playing on my headphones. The story had reached its dénouement, when Frodo brings forth the crown of the High King and Aragorn kneels so that Gandalf can lay it upon his head, proclaiming, “Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!”
But in my world, the time of the kings had not arrived. Danger still hung in the air, threatening the safety of our Earth. Its denizens would need courage and lore to face an uncertain future. I made my way home to my family to quarantine and take up the quest again tomorrow—but I feared, for the first time, that I would have to move forward without the solace of Tolkien’s reassuring novels, which now felt too relevant to offer comfort.
Robert I. Lublin is Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Massachusetts Boston. He is author of Costuming the Shakespearean Stage and contributing co-editor of two books: Reinventing the Renaissance and The Afterlives of Frankenstein: Popular and Artistic Adaptations and Reimaginings.