Lord of the Rings as Zombie Fiction

Lord of the Rings is one of those stories that continues to reward me throughout my life for knowing it. As a young man entering the Marine Corps, I drew on its characterization of adventure. The story both set me off on the course out the front door of my parents' house and also reassured me when nothing went the way I thought it would that that's just how adventures go.

As an idealistic man in my 20's and 30's after the Marine Corps, I saw the story as an injunction to push back against evil, even when it seemed like evil was likely to win. The movies came out during this period of my life.

Now, in my forties and seemingly in the middle of multiple, overlapping slogs that feel like they'll never end, I see something in Frodo's quest I appreciate now in a way I never did before: the way the hero's journey is often about fighting the same small battles thousands of times more than it is about one epic moment of heroism. It's a zombie war.

Why I would ever use stupid zombies in the same breath as my favorite fantasy series

LOTR isn't a zombie story, although there are elements in the story that have some similarities. Orcs are largely undifferentiated--one orc's the same as another. (In the book, we do learn that orcs have different dialects and factions, but largely, orcs are just orcs.) Orcs don't think much for themselves, although instead of following some primal instinct to eat brains, they follow the will of the Eye. And Aragorn saves the city of Gondor when he takes control of an army of undead soldiers. But none of these are what I mean when I speak of Lord of the Rings as a zombie story.

The best explanation I've ever read for the modern fascination with zombies was Chuck Klosterman's back in 2010. The physical prowess of zombies varies from franchise to franchise--a World War Z zombie is stronger than a Living Dead zombie--but by and large, a single zombie or a small group aren't that hard to kill. They are slow and loud and stupid. Knock the brains out of one, then do the next one. As Klosterman put it:

"If there's one thing we all understand about zombie killing, it’s that the act is uncomplicated: you blast one in the brain from point-blank range (preferably with a shotgun). That’s Step 1. Step 2 is doing the same thing to the next zombie that takes its place. Step 3 is identical to Step 2, and Step 4 isn’t any different from Step 3. Repeat this process until (a) you perish, or (b) you run out of zombies. That’s really the only viable strategy."

That's modern life for a lot of us, actually. Klosterman compares it to the act of answering hundreds of emails a day. It's not hard, task-by-task, but the downside is that what we do never ends. The same tasks keep coming back every day, just like the horde is never gone. 

Can I set up a rule in Outlook to delete this without reading?

The Fellowship leaves Rivendell around the Winter Solstice, which is about when Christmas happens. Frodo finally completes the quest around the Vernal Equinox, somewhat coincidental with Easter. In between is the sloggiest time of year. There are moments of terror and excitement in Frodo's quest, but most of it is just putting his head down, moving forward, and fighting the slow, poisoning effect of the ring on his mind. That's it. When reading the second and third books of the trilogy, which are split into a Frodo/Sam portion and a portion with the rest of the Fellowship, the Frodo/Sam portions are by far less thrilling. But they're also by far the most important. Winning heroic and desperate battles means nothing if Frodo doesn't complete his task. 

And that's the whole secret of life. "I know what I must do," Frodo says, "It's just I'm afraid to do it." He might also have said, at many parts in the book, that he knew what he had to do but just didn't want to do it anymore. 

"Time to wake up, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Another day of stubbing our toes as we walk about through these rocks." 

"Fuck off, Sam," Frodo replied, turning over to sleep some more. 

I often get irritated by silly people who describe their small accomplishments in epic terms. Calling a thirty-day detox/weight loss regimen a "journey," that type of thing. It seems to cheapen truly heroic deeds to describe our small lives in those terms. But maybe these people are right in a small way. There is at least some similarity between our hum-drum lives and the hero's journey. Both involve doing small things over and over until they add up to something. 

(But still, stop calling your new job at Cracker Barrel a "journey." Please.)

Zombies and writing

Writing is a zombie battle, too. It's getting up over and over and doing the same thing, mostly without any real hope of ever having a final victory. Why fight, then? Because zombies are there to be fought against. 

"If" for sedentary modernity

Life is more about resilience than anything else for most of us. Kipling told his theoretical young man that it showed real manhood to risk everything you'd won in life, lose it, and start over. But life for most of us is avoiding that drama--to never risk all our winnings on one game of pitch-and-toss. It's slowly building a 401K in the dullest fashion imaginable. It's college savings and making dentist visits on-time. It's doing what's in front of you to do, then doing it again and again and again. 

There must have been a point in Frodo's quest when Mount Doom ceased to even be a real thing in his mind. There was only thirst and soreness and boredom and fear. He kept going. That's a hero.

Years after Bilbo's great adventure, he was still somewhat romantic about adventuring. Frodo was not. He had obtained a deeper wisdom that comes of a more profound suffering. The point of all he did was precisely so people like Sam could carry out pedestrian accomplishments like having children and planting a garden. 

That's the gift this story has given me through this winter. Just keep walking.