In TheOneRing.net's Reading Room, the question "Who is your favorite character in The Lord of the Rings?" recently came up (yet again). I wondered, idly, if the person asking the question was wanting a mere "beauty-contest" poll, or was seeking something more profound, the reasons why people like the characters they like, beyond a rather shallow, "I like Legolas 'cause he's so cute." (How one can tell who's "cute" and who isn't in a book is beyond me.) In the discussion that ensued, I said that I could explain all the reasons why Gandalf is and always has been my personal choice for this honor, but that it would take a lot of explaining, because it would require considerable knowledge of me, and all this would take pages and pages. Well, that it did, though putting it together didn't take quite as long as I'd expected. It would seem that I've been sorting this out in my head more than I had realized. My pardon if this seems to ramble or feels redundant, but it burst out of me rather quickly -- in only a few days -- and is more emotional than I had anticipated. Life never fails to surprise me. But this is my explanation, for what it's worth.

In the art of storytelling, one of the most difficult and satisfying efforts is that of creating characters who are not only believable, but are able to catch hold of and stay in the minds and hearts of readers long after the story is over. If a writer can create even one such imaginary individual in a whole lifetime of storytelling, then they have accomplished a great deal. And if that character manages to step beyond the bounds of the story and becomes a part of a culture, then the author has surely succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. The Lord of the Rings has many memorable characters, but two have somehow made that nearly impossible transition from storybook to myth -- Frodo Baggins and the wizard Gandalf -- which certainly explains why they are two of the best-loved inhabitants of this epic story. But when I first read Lord of the Rings in 1965, just shy of my twelfth birthday, it was still a book enjoyed primarily by devotees of the fantasy genre, not the popular phenomenon it would soon become. I had never heard the catch phrases and slogans that would abound by the time I entered high school, had no idea that this book would become a landmark of modern literature. All I knew was that it was a book one of my brothers read over and over again, and since our relationship at that point was one based in seemingly mutual contempt and hostility, that was certainly no recommendation to impel me to read it. But for some reason I did, and from the very first time, the character of Gandalf reached out, grabbed me, and has never let go, not only as my favorite in Lord of the Rings, but in all of literature. Why?

To even begin to understand that, one would need to understand more about me and the peculiar circumstances of my life, which began to take that peculiar turn at an unusually early age. I was not and never have been a "normal" person. Though I hold no personal stock in such things (are these tests true measures of ability or intelligence or merely gauges of how well a person can take tests?), by my various records, I have an IQ... substantially above average, was rated extremely high in all areas of aptitude tests; I cannot conceive of illiteracy, as I have never been unable to read, and for as long as I can recall, I have been able to learn and do well anything I set my mind to. This sounds like a wonderful formula to create a prodigy -- yet despite all the test scores and the fact that I showed unusual ability in many things at quite a young age, I was completely ignored by both teachers and family.

In retrospect, I understand why this occurred in my family. I was the fifth of six children, and the third of three born very close together, there being only three years and three months separating the oldest from the youngest. By the time I came along, my parents were exhausted, and I just happened to be on the tail end of things. From the example of my older brothers, I learned that being a troublemaker got you all the wrong kind of attention, and since my parents seemed no more pleased by As than by Cs, I saw no reason to make any effort in school, which bored me to tears.

That was what really puzzled me at the time. I knew I wasn't stupid, even though I really had no clear idea of how very different I was. But other kids at school received encouragement from teachers; the only time teachers ever seemed to notice I existed was when someone pushed me too far, set off my temper, and got clobbered. Even then, I never got into trouble; as far as I know, the incidents were never reported to my parents, and the faculty only noticed my existence until things had calmed down again. By the time I was seven, I had realized that the only person in life I would ever be able to rely on was myself, and I became quite the loner.

It wasn't until many years later that I realized a vital part of what had caused this trouble for me so early in life: Unintentionally, I had been raised like a boy. Oh, my mother put me in dresses for school and for church, since that was required, but otherwise, I was lumped in with my two older brothers and pretty much treated the same as they. My two older sisters were more like live-in babysitters than siblings, since they were ten and seven years older than I, and we never lived in a neighborhood that had other girls anywhere near my own age. The result: I didn't act like a girl, I didn't think like a girl, and nobody quite knew what to make of it. I held none of the typical notions of what girls are "supposed" to do when they grow up; the Catholic Church and parochial school in which I was raised seem to feel a female's only worth was either as a wife and mother, or as a nun. The latter was a path my parents adamantly refused to allow me to take -- even though they appeared to want all of us kids to grow up devout Catholics, and encouraged both my older brothers to at least attempt pursuing the priesthood -- and the former was out of the question, because I simply had no maternal instincts whatsoever. My only real dream in life -- to be an astronaut -- was summarily shot down before I turned twelve when I was told point blank that girls cannot become astronauts. In 1965, women were not allowed into the space program, much less women with glasses. It was the only thing I had ever truly wanted to do with my life, and though I had all the potential and intelligence and then some, the door was slammed in my face only because of my gender.

When I realized this -- a matter which would become all the more bitter for me a few years later, when I finally learned that my father's job involved engineering work for the Apollo Project -- I was devastated. It was bad enough being the resident weirdo, completely rejected by other kids, ignored by both parents and teachers and other adults who were supposed to provide guidance and understanding. It was worse being such a person with a gaping hole in your soul, bereft of my one dream for reasons that, to my non-girlish mind, made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I had been born with an overabundance of gifts that had become more of a burden than a joy because I could see no reason at all for having them if on one hand I would not be allowed to use them, and on the other, no one cared if I did, or actively preferred that I didn't. My only friend was God, and even He and I had a relationship that was not "normal," because I had long since concluded that I did not agree with Catholic teachings, disagreed with much of what the Bible had to say, and would argue with my schools' priests and nuns over religious and dogmatic issues whenever the chance arose. I had faith in God, very powerful faith, but none in the Church, or in any religion. Rather sad for a kid of not-quite twelve. I was furious with the world and my family and all the people who should have been providing me with help and support because, from my perspective, no one seemed to give a damn if I lived or died. The adults around me apparently noticed that I was angry, but not once did any of them stop to ask why.

And it was at this very angry and vulnerable and confused moment in my life -- the summer of 1965, when I had no dreams, no direction, no role models, no real hope for my future -- that I decided to read The Lord of the Rings.

At first, I had no idea what my brother saw in it. I knew there was a book that came before it, The Hobbit, and I had tried several times to read it, but simply could not. I'd never read typical children's books, even as a child. The beloved stories of my earliest years came from the pens of James Thurber, Ray Bradbury, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Charles Dickens, not Doctor Seuss, L. Frank Baum, or even C.S. Lewis. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get into The Hobbit, and from the first chapter, it seemed that The Lord of the Rings was going to suffer a similar fate. But I was nothing if not stubborn, so I decided to at least try to push on so that I could see what my brother was making such a fuss over. I'd already done the same with my oldest brother's then-current favorite books, Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy, so I figured I could tough this one out, too, just to say I'd done it.

I plodded on through what struck me as quite a bit of hobbit silliness -- and then I hit a section that reached out, took me by the throat, and did not let go:

"Pity? It was Pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity." 

"I am sorry," said Frodo. "But I am frightened: and I do not feel any pity for Gollum." 

"You have not seen him," Gandalf broke in. 

"No, and I don't want to," said Frodo. "I can't understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death." 

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it. And he is bound up with the fate of the Ring. My heart tells me that he has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before the end; and when that comes, the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many -- yours not the least." 

I read those words, and I cried. At that point in my life, I was feeling very much like Gollum, only a Gollum who was being treated without pity or mercy by what felt like the entire universe, without having committed any apparent crime other than being born at the wrong time in the wrong place with gifts for which I had not asked and that other people simultaneously envied and despised. My first reaction to this passage was bitterness, to wonder why there was no Gandalf in my life, no one to whom I could turn with any hope of receiving pity or understanding. My second was a need to know more about the character, to find out why and how a person could be that way, so that perhaps I might figure out how to find someone like that in my own reality.

There never has been a Gandalf in my life other than in the pages of the books, but reading about the character and slowly learning how Tolkien had come to create him has taught me a great deal about myself, and how to cope with my uniqueness -- and my solitude. Knowing him has taught me many valuable lessons: a proper humility toward my own abilities not the least among them. After suffering through high school and some of the unbearably arrogant boys who boasted of their talents and intelligence, I'd realized that such an attitude wins you no friends and alienates everyone around you, save perhaps for a few fawning sycophants. So I learned not to brag but to share with others what I could do and create, without expecting anything in return, beyond reasonable politeness. Everyone needs to hear "thank you," once in a while, but you also need to learn how to live even if you never do.

I also learned how to deal with betrayal by those you thought were your friends, in a more realistic way than the nuns had tried to teach us back in grade school. During my college years and after, I got to know many people who claimed to admire me and my abilities, but who eventually turned out to be nothing more than parasites, using me toward their own ends and not reciprocating with honest friendship -- or even that politely earnest "thank you." If I had followed what I'd been taught in the Catholic grade schools, I would've either let them keep on using me, forever turning the other cheek until I was bloody and bruised and sucked completely dry, thinking it to be my unavoidable lot in life, or I would've sought vengeance, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

"And what if Sauron does not conquer? What will you do to [Saruman]?" asked Pippin. 

"I? Nothing!" said Gandalf. "I will do nothing to him. I do not wish for mastery. What will become of him? I cannot say. I grieve that so much that was good now festers in the tower..." 

Yes, it's the lesson of "love your enemy," but in a more accessibly human and humane form than I was taught in parochial school. The nuns and priests demanded that we always remember we are unworthy, wretched sinners at the same time they demanded we behave and act like saints. The examples they set -- at least those to which I was a personal witness -- plainly said this was not possible, because we could never hope to be something so far above what they kept telling us we were by our very inborn nature. This contradictory teaching combined with events of my childhood and youth gave me no hope that such a thing was possible; I certainly had no living role models to follow in attempting to attain this goal, even in the sense of learning to pity those who hurt me rather than turn against them in blind rage. All I was taught by the priests and nuns was to have a very low sense of self-esteem, to allow myself to be a victim because I couldn't achieve the impossible. My mind rebelled against their lessons, vehemently, but I still wanted to find a way to answer such cruel treatment with forgiveness, not anger and revenge.

In reading and later studying the character of Gandalf over the years, I saw how it was possible. Whether or not Tolkien intended it, he had taken some very powerful lessons in morality and interpersonal relations and had written them into a single character in way I could understand and subconsciously begin to emulate. I could not be a more-than-human saint, but I was not an abject and worthless sinner, beneath contempt and beyond pity; I could aspire to show compassion to the people who used and abused and betrayed me, time and again. I could not change another person; I could not force their actions or decisions. But if those actions hurt me, I didn't have to seek revenge and harbor anger, either. I could feel sorry for them, and forgive them so that I could let go and move on. I did not want to "fester in the tower" like Saruman; I did not want hatred and anger to eat me alive from the inside out. I preferred to continue on to the next task, like Gandalf.

It was never a consciously made choice, but Gandalf gradually became the role model I'd never had. I did not realize how profoundly I had been influenced by this character until many years and many readings later. Oh, I knew I liked the character very much right from the beginning, but it wasn't until 1993 -- almost thirty years after that first reading -- when I read Morgoth's Ring, and the full magnitude of it suddenly hit me. What triggered it? One line: "He was humble in the Land of the Blessed; and in Middle-earth he sought no renown. His triumph was in the uprising of the fallen, and his joy was in the renewal of hope." (In reference to Olórin in the Valaquenta, a line accidentally omitted from The Silmarillion that according to Christopher Tolkien should have been included.)

This was something I'd pretty much known about the character for a long time. I have not been the most optimistic person in the world, yet hope is something I have stubbornly refused to let go of -- but only since that first time I read Lord of the Rings. Before then, hope was something I had largely abandoned. I had written off my life as something to be endured, not enjoyed, because I had given up hope that it could be otherwise. After reading Lord of the Rings, something in me began to change, in a positive way, despite the torment I had yet to live through in the coming years. High school was a living hell for me, but for some then inexplicable reason, when I was at my most depressed and despondent, I sang songs of hope to myself. In moments of dejection and despair, I turned to reading Lord of the Rings not for escape, but unwittingly seeking affirmation of the basic goodness of the human creature, confirmation that hope could exist even in the darkest of times, when we are being crushed by the weight of life. It seemed utterly incongruous, even at the time, but somewhere, I had learned something that had turned me around and prompted me to look up at the stars and not down at the dirt. I did not know it then, but I had learned it in Lord of the Rings, and most specifically, I had learned it from Gandalf.

"No, my heart will not yet despair. Gandalf fell and has returned and is with us. We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left still upon our knees." 

In one of his letters, Tolkien says that the wizards were angels, guardian angels of Middle-earth, and in a very real but very personal sense, that was what Gandalf became for me, though I didn't understand it during the years when the presence of that character in my mind made the greatest difference in my life. I came to appreciate him for his literary merits long before I grasped this particular private connection. I saw what to me was an exceptionally well-realized character with whom I could strongly identify: a person of unusual ability not permitted to use those abilities because of restrictions imposed upon him by others, but who nonetheless strives to do all he can within those bounds, never allowing the knowledge of what he could do without such fetters to make him either angry or arrogant. Not a perfect person by any means, one who makes mistakes but is not too proud to admit them and move beyond them, who can forego a desire for vengeance out of pity for others, who seeks no personal compensation for sharing his gifts for the benefit and enjoyment of others. To be able to learn to do so without feeling bitterness toward those who would take advantage of me -- and even more, to learn how to not allow myself to be used -- was not an easy thing, but somewhere in reading Tolkien's works, I eventually realized that the trick lay in the example of Gandalf, a character who had humility but also dignity and self-esteem. Such a combination would give one the freedom to share their gifts along with the strength to say no to those who would look to use them in search of an easy way to provide the means to their own ends. In my own young life, I knew no people who displayed these qualities, but I found them in a person who lived only in the pages of a book.

This is actually no surprise to me. Mythology has fascinated me for as long as I can recall, and the characters who inhabit myth are more than just the cast of ordinary stories intended for simple entertainment. The tales in which they exist are ultimately morality plays designed to present the audience with lessons for life, sometimes very large lessons, sometimes very small. The characters embody qualities, both positive and negative, that are a part of human nature, even when the characters themselves are not human; and they are the means by which the moral of the play is set forth and given voice.

Frodo is Tolkien's Everyman, the ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances charged with a task necessary for the good of all, but one that all reason tells us -- and him -- should be beyond his ability. To an extent, it is, since Frodo ultimately fails in his specific mission, to destroy the Ring, but he succeeds in another, even greater mission: to learn to show genuine compassion to someone he knows is his enemy, to not waver in that choice in spite of all the pain and hurt that enemy inflicts upon him, and in the end, to have his own failure turned to success by that enemy because he had learned the true meaning of Pity and Mercy. This, I am sure, is behind the reason that Frodo, like Gandalf, has stepped beyond the bounds of being a mere popular character in a popular story into the cultural consciousness that becomes legend and myth. We would all like to be able to think that we have it in us to be like Frodo, able to pity our enemies rather than hate them, able to show mercy rather than anger. We would like to be able to rise above the pettiness of life and the petty people like Gollum who hurt us time and time again. To see this ability not in some ageless, powerful Elf-lord nor even in a staunchly heroic and unwavering Man Who Would Be King, but rather in someone small and unimportant is significant. "You may be sure that it was not for any merit that others do not possess: not for power or wisdom, at any rate," Gandalf tells Frodo when he asks why he was chosen to carry the Ring. In difficult times, we have all asked ourselves the question, "Why me?" We have felt that we certainly were not up to the task, yet in the end, we somehow managed to find the strength and abilities within us to achieve a seemingly impossible goal. We came through it perhaps not unscathed, but at least alive and wiser for the experience.

Yet to me, that has long been a source of amazement when I look at these two characters: how, despite their overt differences, they are actually quite similar. Both were charged with a nearly impossible task, began with comrades around them to whom they could go for support, and in the end were left to face the final test alone. Both did not want the job when it was first presented to them; both felt themselves too weak for the task, and feared the Enemy greatly. In spite of that, both made the choice to go. Even though Gandalf was "commanded" by Manwë to go to Middle-earth as his emissary among the Istari, he could have chosen to refuse, since all of Eru's creations were given the gift of Free Will, and there is no indication that the King of the Valar broke the Rules by forcing Olórin's choice in the matter.

Certainly, Gandalf and Frodo were both reluctant heroes; they would rather have stayed at home and let the task they feared fall to someone else, but both recognized not only that the choice had been presented to them by someone they respected, but that they wanted to help save a world they loved. Frodo loved the Shire, even though he felt its inhabitants were sometimes intolerably stupid; Olórin "dearly loved all the Children of Ilúvatar," and clearly could not sit at home and watch them suffer and quite likely be destroyed by the malice of Sauron. Though Gandalf is, even in the diminished form of a Wizard, more aware of the Big Picture in the world and possessed of greater powers than Frodo, he is no more able to "wave a magic wand" and make things better than Frodo can simply walk into Mordor, climb Mount Doom, and toss the Ring away without a backward glance. The completion of their tasks rely not only on their own talents, but on their ability to forge alliances, great and small, with the people who will ultimately provide the impetus to carry the quest through to a successful end. And at the moment of completion, both can only stand by and watch while someone else does that final and most necessary deed which is not within their power.

So why did I gravitate toward Gandalf rather than Frodo? As a child, I certainly liked Frodo, but I did not identify with him. Frodo, to put it bluntly, was too ordinary; he was meant to be ordinary, as were all the hobbits, as the common touchstone and viewpoint characters for most of the readers. I, however, was abnormal to an extreme, an eccentric, someone who was always marked as different, forever the stranger, the outsider who wanders in unwanted, whose attempts to help were rejected and frowned upon, whose gifts had to be "hidden under a bushel" because they apparently frightened people. Acceptance only came when I could provide something that others wanted, and when my usefulness was over, I was again tossed aside. Many years after my schooling was well behind me, I was told that the reason some of my teachers ignored me and never made any attempt to become involved in my academic life was because of all those extraordinary test scores and the fact that I was a quiet kid who behaved herself. They did not think I was being quiet because I was bored and disinclined to act up; they apparently felt I was sitting there in silence judging them, because I was smarter than they were. While it's very true that I was incredibly bored by school and in fact learned very little I didn't already know through self-teaching until I was well into college, I never once presumed to judge my instructors, not as a child. I had been taught respect for authority, and I was quiet because I had nothing to say and had long since learned that misbehaving gets you nowhere. But because I said nothing and the teachers never asked, the misperception persisted. Perhaps if I had acted up, things would be quite different for me today. But I didn't, and thus had to turn to literature to seek out a role model for how to cope with being an extraordinary person trapped in an ordinary world.

And that is what I believe ultimately drew me toward Gandalf, a fondness that grew the more I came to know about the nature and background of the character in writings published after Tolkien's death. Here was someone of great ability sent to earth to live out a life in which he was required to be less than he was; yet though he sometimes grew impatient and frustrated and peevish, he accepted the necessities of his situation -- the ones imposed by his superiors and what he knew to be his goal in that life -- worked within them, and managed to achieve his mission as well as could be hoped. He made mistakes, admitted them, and moved on; he neither ignored his accountability nor beat himself up over it long beyond the initial warranted period of regret. He was not perfect, nor did he expect perfection from himself or anyone else, only the best effort that could be made to do what was right, as he was able to grasp the meaning of the word and its greater ramifications. He understood the importance of accepting responsibility for the tasks with which one is charged and for the results of one's actions or inactions. He accepted the price demanded for both success and for failure. And he understood, very clearly, that there are no shortcuts. You cannot take what seems to be the easy way because the road you must walk is long and hard. That easy path will take you away from your goal, deceive you into thinking it's an effortless way of achieving it, and betray you in the end by turning you around until you're so completely lost, the journey takes twice as long and costs twice as much.

"But Gandalf chose to come himself, and he was the first to be lost," answered Gimli. "His foresight failed him." 

"The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others," said Aragorn. "There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark." 

Taking the Ring when Frodo offered it to him would have been the easy way for Gandalf to defeat Sauron -- and the shortcut would have exacted its own terrible price by turning the wizard into a new Sauron, only a Dark Lord even worse than the original, by Tolkien's admission. Seeing that you can do a thing does not mean you must or even should; moreover, becoming too enamored of the seductively easy path begins to blind you to the horrible consequences of it.

Boromir saw that the Ring could be used to easily defend Gondor; his fixation on that one goal, noble though it was, blinded him to what the Ring would in turn do to him. He deflected those possibilities with the ultimately arrogant belief that true-hearted Men would not be corrupted, but he had no real concept of the dreadful Power with which he was toying, even in his mind. Surely, this was not entirely his fault; it was a part of the essential deceit of the Ring, as Tolkien said, filling the minds of those it would ensnare with notions that they could wield it and command it and bend it to their will with no harm to themselves. In Boromir, it played on human pride to prevent him from understanding what it would really do to him, and at the same time, it goaded his sense of duty into believing that this would be the means through which he could most effectively save his people. His temptation was neither wholly selfish nor wholly selfless. "We do not desire the power of wizard-lords, only strength to defend ourselves, strength in a just cause," he says, but only a few sentences later, adds, "What could not a warrior do in this hour, a great leader? What could not Aragorn do? Or if he refuses, why not Boromir? The Ring would give me power of Command. How I would drive the hosts of Mordor, and all men would flock to my banner!" He gives in to his dreams of personal power and fame, and falls.

In Gandalf, the Ring whispered promises that it would allow him to do great good -- a lie undoubtedly magnified by his knowledge that his own native power would provide tremendous "fuel for the fire" and thus permit him to accomplish things beyond even the imaginings of Boromir.

"With that power I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly... Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself. Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me! I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused. The wish to wield it would be too great for my strength. I shall have such need of it. Great perils lie before me." 

Saruman, another Maia, no doubt saw the same possibilities for gaining tremendous power in picturing himself as the Ring Lord. Both Wizards had personal visions of what might be accomplished combining their own abilities with the power of the Ring, but Saruman made the mistake of believing that the ends justified the means.

"As the Power grows, its proved friends will also grow; and the Wise, such as you and I, may with patience come at last to direct its courses, to control it. We can bide our time, we can keep our thoughts in our hearts, deploring maybe the evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things that we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak and idle friends. There need not be, there would not be, any real change in our designs, only in our means." 

But Saruman's logic has one fatal flaw: in changing the means, in adopting the ways of evil, one becomes evil. The intent to do good by doing harm begins a chain-reaction of corruption that is ultimately self-destructive, consuming the individual until the means cease to be a method and become the end itself. Saruman failed to see that he had already gone a great distance down that road; he refused to admit his mistakes, and thus did not perceive his own actions as mimicking Sauron's. He thought he could assume the appearance of evil to dupe Sauron, then shrug off this disguise once his goal of gaining the Ring was achieved, but he could not recognize that what had started as camouflage to spy on Sauron was no longer an adopted cover; it had become a reflection of his true self and true intent. The palantíri cannot show lies; at worst they can show a portion of the truth that will manipulate the one who sees it.

"Easy it is now to guess how quickly the roving eye of Saruman was trapped and held; and how ever since he has been persuaded from afar, and daunted when persuasion would not serve. The biter bit, the hawk under the eagle's foot, the spider in a steel web! How long, I wonder, has he been constrained to come often to his glass for inspection and instruction...?" 

Saruman, of course, never quite saw it this way; in his mind, he remained in control, still able to make his own choices. Had he believed otherwise, he would have known that Sauron's army was far greater than his own, his power more firmly entrenched, and he would not have dared to raise forces in the hope of eventually opposing him; he would have worked in concert with him. Instead, he felt that all he needed was to obtain the Ring, and his plans would fall into place -- but he, like Boromir, fell victim to the deceit of the Ring. In the end, Saruman fell like Milton's Satan, even though he was offered multiple chances to repent; he preferred to rule in a little Hell of his own making than to serve in any kind of Heaven -- just as Sauron himself had done long ago, rather than submit to the judgement of the Valar.

But though Gandalf was likely tempted by the Ring just as strongly as Saruman -- if not more so, since Saruman was never actually offered the Ring as a gift -- he was not deceived, about the Ring or, more importantly, about himself. He knew enough of the Ring and its maker, and he knew himself and what he felt were his personal weaknesses. From the start, he did not consider himself strong enough to contest Sauron; he had accepted his limitations in that regard even before leaving Valinor as Manwë's messenger. He admitted his failings, mistrusted his own ability to resist the power of the Ring, would not set himself up as the master of anything, not even the White Council, and thus made himself less vulnerable to the Ring's corruption. He felt its lure, and the draw of other objects of great power; the scene in which he refuses the Ring is not the only time the notion of using it, and items such as the palantír, enters his mind. But though he thinks the thoughts of what he might do with these tools of power, he never acts on them, never makes the fatal mistake of thinking he could use the Ring or even the palantír for noble purposes. In fact, he does his best to make certain those paths are closed to him by sending such things into the hands of others -- where, in the end, they ultimately belong. The palantíri were heirlooms of the House of Elendil; thus it is both Aragorn's right and duty to wrench the Orthanc stone back into his possession and out of Sauron's control. It was the inhabitants of Middle-earth who allowed themselves to be lulled by Sauron's promises and lies in the matter of the Rings; thus it is their right and duty to see to its final destruction and the overthrow of its maker.

"Fixing" these situations is not Gandalf's job; indeed, if he were to do so, he would become the ultimate "enabler," falling into that same error made by the Valar time and again, when they tried to help the Children of Ilúvatar by "doing what's best for them" and not allowing them to do it for themselves. Gandalf understands that it is not his place to rescue all of Middle-earth single-handedly, nor even to take command of its people as a ruler or overlord. It is his place to teach and encourage and support them, to instruct them in self-sufficiency, not dependence, so that they will overthrow evil through their own efforts and not rely upon powers from outside their own world to save them. In Letter 156, Tolkien points out: "He alone is left to forbid the entrance of the Lord of the Nazgûl to Minas Tirith, when the City has been overthrown and its gates destroyed -- and yet so powerful is the whole train of human resistance, that he himself has kindled and organized, that in fact no battle between the two occurs: it passes to other mortal hands." He has done his job as an educator and guide; his pupils have now begun to grasp how to overcome evil by working together, and having done it once, they will be able to do it again.

"Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set; uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule." 

This is the wisdom he gives to those whose task it will be to order the world after Sauron is overthrown. He is teaching them to teach their successors, not to try to build an empire that will last for ages to come, but to clean up their own world and leave that legacy to those who will come after. It is an essential quality of hope, not merely for oneself -- since sometimes, you must give up hope for yourself so that others might have it -- but for future generations to come.

"We must walk open-eyed into that trap, with courage, but small hope for ourselves. For, my lords, it may well prove that we ourselves shall perish utterly in the black battle far from the living lands; so that even if Barad-dûr be thrown down, we shall not live to see a new age. But this, I deem, is our duty. And better so than to perish nonetheless -- as we surely shall, if we sit here -- and know as we die that no new age shall be." 

As dark as those words sound at the end of the Last Debate, they held for me great meaning. What was more important in my own life: that I do anything and everything that I could with my gifts so that I might win recognition and attention and glory for myself, and rub the noses of my enemies in my success; or that I use my abilities as best I can not only for my own edification and joy, but to share the results with others who would accept what is offered in the spirit of its offering, and thus perhaps find some inspiration and enjoyment of their own? To allow myself to be used, or to give what is appropriate as appropriate, both for the sheer pleasure of giving and for the enrichment of others?

These nobler aims sound like a very admirable goal, but it's not one easily achieved. Knowing where to draw the line is difficult. Too often, generous givers are sucked dry and are nearly dead before they realize what's happening to them, that their efforts to be kind and giving have been mercilessly used and abused by others who give little or nothing in return. The quality of "selflessness" -- not, in truth, a lack of self, but a clear understanding of it combined with a generous and compassionate spirit -- is a very thin area between two much larger bodies, selfishness and low self-esteem. In attempting to achieve the ideal, one tends to lapse into the latter, to their serious detriment, and often, in trying to recover from it or avoid it, one swings into the former, also to their detriment.

The term "enlightened self-interest" has often been used sarcastically, but in reality, it is very much what is needed in order to achieve the positive and healthy selflessness: a knowledge of your own needs and limits, clearly illuminated so that you are able to see what you can give, what you should give, and what you can and should not give, and when. Saruman's version of enlightened self-interest was in the purely negative use of the term; he was impatient to order the world in his way for his greater glory, and the light of his understanding fell only on those things that would give him his way. To him, learning about the Ring was in his enlightened self-interest because it would enable to him to get it for himself, to defeat Sauron and take his place, thereby imposing his will and his order on the world. To Gandalf, learning about the Ring was in his enlightened self-interest because knowing the truth of its full danger allowed him to avoid taking it himself. It saved him from being trapped by the Ring, and helped him find the way to defeat Sauron once and for all, thereby setting free the wills of all those people who had lived under the threat of the Enemy's will, to exercise their own in the ordering of the world that belonged to them, not to any of the Ainur.

With great power comes great responsibility, goes the saying, and power comes in many forms; not merely "magic," but also knowledge, wisdom, talent, ability, strength of both mind and body. If we possess these things to any unusual degree, we have to learn to live with them in a society where genius of any type is at once admired and reviled, because it is "abnormal." On one hand, we are told that our gifts are precious and rare and wonderful and something in which we should take pride, but on the other, when jealousy inevitably rears its ugly head among those so-called admirers, the gifted are forced to hide their light under a bushel and be less than they are -- and worse, untrue to themselves -- in order to avoid persecution.

"Understand one another? I fear I am beyond your comprehension." That, unfortunately, is often the bane of the gifted. What is not understood is very often reviled and rejected; no real attempt at comprehension is made. The person is slapped with the "different" label, and pushed aside as unacceptable. The expected response to such treatment would be anger -- yet if Gandalf was ever angry with Saruman, it was not for his failure to understand him nor even for his hatred of him, but for the things he did in pursuit of his own power, betraying not only Gandalf but more importantly the cause for which they had both been sent. In the Real World, it is very hard not to feel anger and bitterness toward those who reject us because we are what they would like to be; it is difficult to pity rather than hate them, and in my youth, I certainly had no role models for how to achieve this.

One might think that being raised Catholic, I could point to the example of Christ, but the image of Christ taught when I was a child was nothing to which any human could ever aspire. Christ, we were told, never ever felt hatred, and only was roused into righteous anger on very rare occasions by persons whose crimes were vastly more important than the pettiness of mistreatment by our supposed peers. Hate and anger were terrible sins, and no matter what had been done to you to provoke them, simply feeling them made you an unworthy sinner who needed to beg forgiveness. But emotions are part of the human condition, and though we can learn to control how we respond to them, we are less than human if we cannot and do not feel them at all. Common sense told me that the ability to forgive would not come through the suppression of my own humanity; it would come via an acceptance of it so that I could learn how to cope with the inevitable surges of negative emotions without resorting to "an eye for an eye."

In the end, for myself, I found validation for such common sense notions not in the examples of people in my life nor in the things I had been taught in school and in church. I found them in a work of fiction, embodied in a character who turned out to be a better role model than any living person I had ever met. What touched me in the character of Gandalf was the example of an extraordinary person caught in an ordinary world, in which he is not readily accepted by more than a few, but does whatever good he can during his time in that world for the love of it, its Maker, and his personal integrity. He neither sells out nor gives in nor gives up. He perseveres, and in the end he succeeds. And all the great good he accomplishes is done without any need to boast that he is better than others, simply because he is what he is.

"The rule of no realm is mine, neither of Gondor nor any other, great or small. But all worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are my care. And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come. For I also am a steward. Did you not know?" 

This is what I ultimately learned from Lord of the Rings, and from Gandalf: That I am the steward of all my gifts, and even if I never win a bit of fame or fortune from them, if I can, by using them, brighten the life of one person, pass some small crumb of wisdom or insight on to another, help inspire a glimmer of hope in just one person falling into despair, make someone laugh, or give them even a momentary glimpse of joy or beauty, then I have used my talents well. It is not my place to run the world or change it, nor to become rich and famous. It is my place to use my gifts as best I can, to help and to bring happiness to others, and also to myself. If that improves life in only one little corner of the world, then like a pebble dropped in a pond, the effect will spread.

I think all of these things are tremendous lessons, and I'm glad to have learned them in such a wonderful way. To me, there can never be another book quite like Lord of the Rings, nor any character likely to take that very personal place in my psyche which Gandalf occupies. Each moment of our life comes but once, along with each opportunity to be shaped in a certain way before we grow beyond it. Parts of us change with the years; one branch flourishes and blossoms while another withers, dies, and falls away. But the life and spirit within us reaches certain stages of development and evolution that once past, cannot be recalled. My childhood and youth did not have supportive parents, encouraging teachers, outstanding role-models, intimate friends. I cannot change that, much though I might wish to. But it did have Middle-earth and an all-too-human wizard who said the right things at the right time in the right ways to help me become the person I am today. Not, perhaps, what Tolkien had ever envisioned or intended as an upshot of his Secondary World, but a legacy I treasure all the same. And for that, I humbly thank him.

Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom to laughing, were it to gush forth.