Far over the Misty Mountains cold

Ascultând ”Misty Mountains” îmi aduc aminte de copilăria mea înțesată de prinți, războinici, ființe fantastice, prințese chipeșe, de mitologia nordică, de imaginarul heroic phantasy (inclusiv cel heavy metal al celor de la Manowar) precum și de calități umane precum curaj, eroism, adevăr, prietenie, etc.  Cu alte cuvinte îmi aduc aminte cât de ușor era să transcend realitatea modernă atât de confuză, amalgamată și să mă întrupez într-o realitate a evidenței binelui și răului, a caracterelor umane care aveau idealuri și luptau pentru ele. Mă întreb: dacă astfel de povești sunt bune pentru dezvoltarea conceptelor morale ale copiilor, oare ce se întâmplă peste ani, când găsim tineri  gâdilați excesiv de gadgeturi și party-uri dar care nu mai cred în inocență și dragoste, nu mai știu să viseze și sunt mai cinici decât un bătrân împovărat de experiențele amare ale unui război sau foamete?

Tocmai de aceea cred că e foarte actuală critica modernității din narațiunile lui J. R. Tolkien (rămâne de lămurit episodul ”The Inklings”). Persoana umană e sacrificată de mașini, dorințele umane sunt devorate de slăbiciuni hrănite de mașini nemiloase, impersonale. Să ajungem la downloadarea sufletelor noastre pe memorii externe și apoi ”updatarea” lor după algoritmul unui anume program?

All this stuff is mainly concerned with the fall, mortality and the machine. By the machine, I intend all use of external devices or even the use of inherent inner powers, with the corrupted motive of dominating and bulldozing the real world. The machine is our more obvious modern form. The enemy in successive forms is always concerned with sheer domination, and so the Lord of Machines… As the servants of the machines are becoming a privileged class, the machines are going to be enormously more powerful. What’s their next move? (J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, ”From a letter by J. R. R. Tolkien to Milton Waldman, 1951”)

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

Through dungeon’s deep and caverns old

We must away or break of day

To seek the pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell like ringing bells

In places deep, where dark things sleep,

In Hollow halls beneath the fells.

For ancient king and elvish lord

There many a gleaming golden hoard

They shaped and wrought, and light they caught

To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

On silver necklaces they strung

The flowering stars, on crowns the hung

The dragon fire, in twisted wire

They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

Through dungeon’s deep and caverns old

We must away or break of day

To claim our long-forgotten gold.

Goblets they carved there for themselves

And harps of gold; where no man delves

There lay they long, and many a song

Was sung unheard by man or elves.

The pines were roaring on height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the Dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the Misty Mountains grim

Through dungeon’s deep and caverns dim

We must away or break of day

To win our harps and gold from him.

(J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit.  Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2007, ch. 1.)

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