i think the reason that i find the tragedy of the prequels so compelling is that anakin is such a good tragic hero. he's shown to be an intelligent man with a mature understanding of the world, who made catastrophic choices on purpose because they were easier and more personally satisfying to him. when fans deny him that agency, i believe they misunderstand the story in important ways. one can say that he was manipulated and deceived, one can diagnose him with every mental illness in the DSM (and people in my notes often do), but one cannot say that he wasn't fast to toss aside his moral values to lash out and to get what he wanted.
the fact of the narrative is that anakin knew better, and he chose the easy option (with full knowledge that it was 'wrong'), because he refused to accept core limitations of reality, namely the inevitability of death. he thought that having special powers meant the rules didn't apply to him and those he loved, and that's how he ended up killing kids and serving as a fascist enforcer for decades. one can contort themselves into knots to try to excuse that, and there were indeed many contextual forces that gave him so much power in the first place, but there is no real excuse for what he chose to do with that power.
without anakin being that kind of moral agent, there is no tragedy. tragedy in an aristotelean sense is a narrative designed to elicit feelings of pity and fear, because we the audience know that we too are doomed to suffer and all too readily make easy, bad choices to avoid pain. none of us want to accept that some parts of life include losing, and require sacrifice. anakin's greed was his undoing, as it is all to often our own. refusing to accept that the tragedy of the prequels, explaining away and excusing the fall of the hero, means protecting ourselves from accepting the painful truth that we are just like him, and can and do make the same kind of mistakes.
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Returning to an old conversation about magic in LotR, something occurred to me the other day: Sting was a far more effective weapon against Shelob than Sam's sword, slicing through multiple of her webs with a single sweep and cutting into her belly without much apparent effort from Sam. The text is a bit unclear for the brief portion of the fight when Sam is using two swords, but it seems to me that the only wound Sam's own sword scores against her is against one of her eyes: "The shining sword bit upon her foot and shore away the claw. Sam sprang in, inside the arches of her legs, and with a quick upthrust of his other hand stabbed at the clustered eyes upon her lowered head." While both swords could potentially be shining, Sting is established to be glowing at this point due to the proximity of the orcs in the tower, so I'm inclined to believe that the shining sword here is Sting, the one that chops off the end of one of her legs no problem, while the other one strikes against her eye, established two paragraphs later to be her softest spot.
Now Frodo attributes this potency against Shelob to the sword's origins. "There were webs of horror in the dark ravines of Beleriand where it was forged." And basically this pans out, Gondolin, where Sting was made, was not too far from Ered Gorgoroth, where Ungoliant and her spawn (including, most likely, Shelob herself) lived until Beleriand fell. The logic here, is, perhaps, similar to the reasoning for why Frodo and Merry's barrow-blades were so potent against the Witch-king, having adopted a portion of their makers' loathing for a particular enemy. And there is indeed evidence enough for this: the first spider Bilbo encounters in Mirkwood "evidently was not used to things that carried such stings at their sides, or it would have hurried away quicker." This spider lived not too far from the Elvenking's halls, surely it had been attacked with weapons before, which does call up an idea of there being something especially terrible to it about this particular sword. (Though this spider is also inarguably quite inept and possibly stupid; no shade to Bilbo but losing a fight to a mostly-tied-up enemy that can't see in the dark and has never before fought anything more dangerous than a particularly stubborn door-to-door salesman doesn't exactly reflect well on its capabilities.)
But I think Sting had another enchantment on it, and one a great deal more recent, and possibly even more direct: the enchantment of its name.
Bilbo takes a sword from a troll-hoard, puts it on his belt and under his jacket, and then proceeds to carry it around for months without thinking about it at all -- until, that is, he finds himself face to face with a giant spider, a giant spider who, as is made clear in the text, was one of Shelob's own descendants: "Far and wide her lesser broods, bastards of the miserable mates, her own offspring, that she slew, spread from glen to glen, from the Ephel Duath to the eastern hills, to Dol Guldur and the fastnesses of Mirkwood (emphasis mine)."
So Bilbo takes his sword and makes his first kill, and what we witness next is a Moment by any definition: "Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves of of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath."
Then Bilbo names the sword, and he names it Sting, calling to mind the thought of a fly that can fight off a spider, a tiny creature coming out on top in a fight with a fierce predator. And then he sets off and uses his newly minted sword to rescue his friends from giant spiders. And though he uses the sword again in his adventure, it is never such a great moment, and indeed he ends up missing a great deal of the battle where it would have been most useful, leaving this incident with the spiders as not only his first use of the weapon, but his most significant -- as The Hobbit is meant to be adapted from his memoirs, certainly the only one he felt important enough to write about.
And for sixty years Sting laid quiet in the Shire, hanging over Bilbo's mantle, where he told stories about it to his nieces and nephews and cousins and anyone else who would listen, and doubtless the story he kept circling back to was the one about the great spiders and the christening of his sword, and even if nobody believed it, a bit of a legend grew about it, and whatever deeds, if any, it was involved in before it found its way to the troll's hoard were forgotten, and it became the Sting, the sword that was used to defend friends from Shelob's brood.
I hardly need to point out the power inherent in names and the naming of things and people in Tolkien's work.
And then, seventy-eight years after its christening, Sting finds itself in another spider's lair, the grandmother or great-grandmother of that first spider that earned it its name -- and this is what it is, now. This is its entire identity, insomuch as a sword can have one of those. I think that over seventy-eight years Bilbo quite inadvertently but also quite effectively wove an enchantment against Shelob and her ilk on that sword, never knowing how much it would matter in the end. Indeed, I would put forth that there was no other weapon in contemporary Middle-earth that would have been such a bitter sting to Shelob; similar enchantments, perhaps, could be found in Thranduil's halls from his people's long struggle against the spiders there, but on a blade from Gondolin, which shared a mountain range with the land where Ungoliant herself lived for a time? And Glamdring and Orcrist would have inherited those properties alongside Sting, but they had a legacy of goblin slaying, not spider slaying.
So, quite by accident, Frodo and Sam walked into Shelob's lair with the best possible chance of escaping her.
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I can't stop thinking about the revelation of Luo Binghe's heavenly demonic heritage and how striking the differences are in SVSSS vs PIDW.
In terms of the original, how Shen Jiu's violence was unexpected but numbing after a point. How Luo Bingge's awakening would be a means to freedom; that while he might be reviled by human immortals, at least he no longer had any reason to give a damn what they thought. Demonic cultivation would exact the wrongs that had been acted on him tenfold in cold blood, to repay youthful admiration and blind trust with all the cruelty unleashed on him indiscriminately. How easy it was for Luo Bingge to choose power and performance because he had little if nothing else of substance to turn to.
For Luo Bingge, otherness is an easy second skin because he's never once belonged in the first place. Sneering is natural when the entire world has done nothing but badmouth, ridicule, hit, and condemn you for things that were never within your control. “What does it matter that you're a monster now?” Luo Bingge seems to think, “You were and will be a monster always.” Every facade, every ill-intended act of deception and violence is merely injustice reaping its due.
Luo Binghe (Bingmei) has no such liberties.
For Luo Binghe, the trappings of comfort and belonging end up yielding an entirely new problem, a reversal of Luo Bingge’s non-conundrum. His fear is that Shen Qingqiu’s love might be conditional rather than a despair that it is non-existent, because in many respects it is for the surrounding immortals; they go from calling Binghe a promising and shining youth to a demonic scourge born to invite ruin in the span of a handful of years. Shen Qingqiu, caught between what he wants to do versus what he believes he must do and his own fears, sours Luo Binghe’s trust to quivering doubt. What Bingge desperately craved was precisely what put Binghe through such unrelenting turmoil. Where difference and change is freedom for Luo Bingge, it is a chilling and unwelcome prospect for Luo Binghe.
For Luo Binghe, the thought that he could be something monstrous to the person he loves is a form of self-annihilation; so much of his desperation to appear non-threatening to Shen Qingqiu is rooted in this self-same anxiety. In the wake of Meng Mo’s intervention, Luo Binghe cannot even bring himself to ask “What does it matter that you’re a monster now?” He can only cling to the desperate belief that if he can just conceal what he is for long enough, the future he always dreamed of might still be within his reach: an eternal life of peace by Shen Qingqiu’s side.
For Luo Binghe, the rejection of his humanity means rejecting the people who nurtured him wholeheartedly (the washerwoman, transmigrated Shen Qingqiu) with love and kindness. Even despite the confusion behind Shen Qingqiu’s change, even despite how enigmatic and reticent he can often still be, Binghe recognizes powerful instances of tenderness and care in his actions. Someone who stubbornly healed his wounds, who was unable to watch him be brutally bullied without due recourse, someone who trusted in him and his potential with his whole heart.
For Luo Binghe, power and demonic strength mean absolutely nothing because he has love. He doesn’t want them, and even when he does have them they are used in service of protecting Shen Qingqiu. Xin Mo isn’t able to take over because Luo Binghe isn’t strong enough to resist its temptations to subjugate the world, it happens because he exhausts so much energy trying to preserve Shen Qingqiu’s life that his resistance fractures. And even when Xin Mo succeeds in warping Binghe’s mind, the end result is still in service to a desire to be close to Shen Qingqiu’s heart. In the end, he continues to seek love.
Where the inexorable tides of change become opportunity (arguably even a boon) for Luo Bingge, for Luo Binghe this change is the focal point of his calamitous loss. How Luo Bingge's ascension is a ruthless and seamless transformation--all of his experiences hardening him into something harsh and brutal and unyielding to survive. How Luo Binghe's is instead a fall from grace; the corruption of innocence and stolen youth--of dreams razed to ash and safety obliterated.
And after all, doesn't it hurt so much more to have known peace and thrash that it will forever be out of your grasp? ...Than to live in such tumultuous waters that gentleness is an alien, loathsome, and unfathomable thing. For the former, a feeling of safety may never be restored--always looking back before looking forward. For the latter, there is nothing but the grim and solitary march on, eyes shuttered to all else.
I feel like that's why I love the ending of the third novel, as disturbing as it may appear to a lot of readers. Shen Qinqiu expresses his disbelief and hurt that Luo Binghe would lie to him and choose so much destruction, but for Luo Binghe it all has a singular source. Without love, he has nothing. He cannot choose a life devoid of the person he loves.
(I once read a fic where Luo Binghe says ‘I never wanted to be a demon’ to Shen Qingqiu and I think it metaphysically changed me as a person. Every single day I think about it and try not to bawl my eyes out. Anyways.)
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