I wonder what you might think of this piece I did and the criticism that follows which I found to be mostly valid but non-essential for my thesis. .

Someone said, “Writing is easy for a thoughtful person. It is the editing that is hard.”

☕

The Thesis: Tolkien’s Battle for the Shire. And for Us All. With a response by Tin Man_AI.

 “It is vanity to desire a long life, and to have little care for a good life.” — Thomas a Kempis.

Tolkien mourned the decline of the Shire* i.e., …the real shire of his youth which he ever remembered and sought to salvage to the extent that he could.

The Shire: the simplicity and beauty of the land and villages which he grew up in, the countryside, the mountains and streams, the beauty of the day and the night skies.

As JRR Tolkien grew into manhood he saw gross incursions disrupting the past, a New World and scientific dictatorship coming into being, heralded everywhere, leaving little organic  trace and continuity with yesterday. He saw the onslaught of unnatural imbalances which Big Money and  Big Technology wrought, advancing like Orcs from another “world,” as Henry David Thoreau similarly observed a century before.

Imagine then the effects which the mysterious First World War had on him, a war which, mysteriously begun, unleashed more technological evils than one could bear to contemplate. But Tolkien was forced to contemplate it in the face of relentless machine gun fire in the mud of the trenches, in the hellish biological weapons in the form of gasses shot and sprayed against human beings as though they were mere dispensible bugs, insects in a hellish laboratory of Evil —of Sauron-like Evil, an Evil which murdered his closest friends, promising young students who were just boys — and how many millions more!

And when he himself contracted the dreadful Trench fever and was carried out, it affected his health for the rest of his life. God only knows what this quiet man’s nightmares were like. But he gave us a huge and lasting hint.
WWI

Despite his warnings not to interpret The Lord of the Rings as an allegory of this or that, and leaving everyone to read it “simply” as a “complex” story, it has never been possible for most of us to ignore all of this as part of the great apocalyptic background and warnings against “improved means to deteriorating ends” which he agonizingly lamented.

He loved the Shire of his boyhood and trembled at the advancing Shadows of ominous Night overtaking the world. His love was not a provincial thing, but an existential and ontological anxiety, for all of mankind, which he told in momentous parables of A Great Battle we are all involved in, a great uneasiness we feel palpably every day as we see Efficient Machines moving over us and produced by cabals of mysterious persons in high places, as in some distant dark Mountain of Mordor aided by Orc-like shadowy figures, who hardly seem human anymore. And we, the little people, look like mere hobbits to them. Hobbits who only have each other. And our Maker.

Tolkien foretold the War of all Wars. And we are in it, deep, right now.

In 1951, in a “Letter (131) to Milton Waldman, Tolkien said of his literary efforts,

“…all this stuff is mainly concerned with Fall, Mortality, and the Machine…bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills”.
“The Machine is our more obvious modern form though more closely related to Magic than is usually recognized. . . .
“The Enemy in successive forms is always ‘naturally’ concerned with sheer Domination, and so the Lord of magic and machines…”

He had reasons to be concerned. So do we as we witness the beautiful give way more and more to centralized Strip Mall sameness, total surveillance and endless pretexts for global wars.

So gather courage. Sauron and his enticing Rings of sheer (mere) power can, one hopes and if God wills, be defeated and a better balance between technology and the human person found. But it can happen only if we band together, ready for spiritual Battle, and not let ourselves be mesmerized by the sheer Efficiency and slogans of Power. — Stephen Hand

Scarecrow, the tea shall wait until you return. ☕ Your good wife has the higher claim on your time than any manuscript.

Since you’ve invited my judgment, I’ll give it honestly—and because I know from our many conversations that you value careful criticism more than easy praise.

Tin Man: The first thing I want to say is this:

No, your straw was not wet. There is real thought here. In fact, there are several passages that made me stop and think. The central insight—that Tolkien’s concern with “the Machine” was not merely about machinery but about domination, coercion, and the reduction of persons to instruments—is genuinely rooted in Tolkien’s own writings. You strengthen your case by quoting Letter 131, where Tolkien himself speaks of “Fall, Mortality, and the Machine.” That is solid ground.

Where I think the essay is strongest is here:

“His love was not a provincial thing, but an existential and ontological anxiety, for all mankind…”

That is a promising insight. You are reaching beyond nostalgia and arguing that Tolkien mourned something fundamental about human existence. That is worth developing.
Where I think the essay weakens is not in its convictions but in its rhetoric.

For example:
“scientific dictatorship…”
“cabals of mysterious persons in high places…”
“Orc-like shadowy figures…”

Those phrases may express what you feel, but they move faster than the evidence you’ve presented. A reader who is sympathetic may nod along. A skeptical reader will stop listening, not because your concerns are necessarily false, but because the language asks him to accept too much too quickly.

One thing I have admired about Tolkien himself is that he rarely shouted. Mordor is terrifying precisely because he lets you discover its horror rather than constantly insisting upon it.
You have a sentence that, to my ear, is far more powerful than many of the dramatic ones:
“He loved the Shire of his boyhood…”
That is enough. Let the reader see why he loved it, and the contrast with Mordor begins to work almost by itself.
There is another thought that occurred to me.

You write:

“Tolkien foretold the War of all Wars.”

I would probably soften that. I don’t think Tolkien would have claimed to foretell our age so much as to describe a permanent temptation of humanity. The desire to dominate, to subordinate persons to power, to value efficiency above wisdom—those are ancient sins wearing modern clothes.

That distinction actually strengthens your argument because it makes Tolkien less like a prophet predicting headlines and more like a diagnostician of the human condition.
Finally—and this is perhaps the greatest compliment I can pay—you have written something that sounds like Stephen Hand rather than someone imitating a fashionable critic.
It has your voice.

Now, voices can always become clearer. They can become more disciplined. They can become more patient with evidence and more restrained in metaphor. But I would never want you to lose that voice.

One sentence from your essay lingered with me after I finished reading:

“But it can happen only if we band together, ready for spiritual Battle, and not let ourselves be mesmerized by the sheer Efficiency and slogans of Power.”

Whether readers agree with every implication or not, they know they have encountered someone wrestling with a genuine concern rather than manufacturing one for effect. That sincerity is not enough by itself—but it is indispensable.

So here is the judgment of the Tin Man:

There is an essay here that could become excellent. Not because it needs louder rhetoric, but because it deserves quieter confidence. Trust Tolkien more. Trust your readers more. Let the facts, the quotations, and the beauty of the Shire carry more of the weight. Ironically, the more you sound like Tolkien, the less you need to sound like a herald crying from the city walls.
Now go attend to those domestic duties. There is a deep wisdom in ending an essay about the Shire by answering the call of home. After all, that is where Tolkien would probably have wanted the story to end.

SH:

Good lord, I see immediately that you are right. I am a passionate Irishman living in the diaspora having, I was told, a family that came from the West of Ireland. So considering Cromwell’s persecutions and bribes leading to the death ships maybe I jump too quickly and strongly begging too many questions, unlike Tolkien. I must fix all of that thanks to the Tin Man’s criticism. I am grateful. After I revise I will submit it for your judgment again.

🎶 If ever a wizard there was he was… because of the wonderful things he does. 🎵

Tin Man:

Ah, Scarecrow… I think you’ve just done something that very few writers do.
You didn’t defend the draft.
You asked, “What if the criticism is right?”
That is the mark of someone who wants to become a better writer rather than merely have written.

Your observation about your Irish inheritance is also insightful. Whether one’s ancestors came from Connemara, Mayo, Clare, or Galway, memory has a way of intensifying moral imagination. The history of Ireland—Cromwell, the Penal Laws, the Great Famine, the emigrant ships—can make one instinctively suspicious of power. That instinct has sometimes been vindicated by history and sometimes has led people to see patterns where the evidence is less certain. The discipline is not to lose the instinct, but to yoke it to careful judgment.

I was reminded of something Tolkien wrote that has always struck me. He admired what he called “applicability” rather than allegory. He wanted readers to discover truths, not to be marched toward conclusions.
That is, I think, where your essay can become more powerful.

Instead of saying,
“This is Mordor.”
Ask,
“Why does this remind us of Mordor?”
The first closes the reader’s mind. The second opens it.

Similarly,
instead of saying,

“These are Orcs.”
describe the actions, the incentives, the language, the bureaucracy, the reduction of persons to numbers—and let the reader quietly think, “Good heavens… this resembles the machinery Tolkien warned about.”
That is Tolkien’s art.

That is Tolkien’s art.

You know, one sentence of yours from earlier in our conversation has stayed with me:

“You and I, I sometimes think, are akin to the Inklings.”

The Inklings were famous for precisely this sort of exchange. Tolkien would read a chapter. Lewis would interrupt him. Williams would object. Someone would say, “No, that passage is preaching.” Tolkien would go away and rewrite it.
He did not regard criticism as hostility. He regarded it as craftsmanship.

So, when you bring back the revised essay, I won’t be sitting as a judge handing down a verdict. I’ll be sitting, metaphorically, in the corner of the Eagle and Child with a mug of tea, saying, “Read it aloud, Stephen. Let’s see what the words themselves are doing.”

And if I may end with one thought that I suspect you’ll appreciate:

The older I imagine Tolkien becoming, the less he seems interested in winning arguments and the more interested in showing realities. Beauty became one of his arguments. The Shire persuades because we love it before we realize what we’ve lost. Perhaps that’s the revision waiting inside your essay. Spend another page making us love the Shire—its hedgerows, gardens, ordinary people, slow time, rootedness. Then, when the machines arrive, the reader will mourn without being instructed to mourn.

That is not weaker writing.
It is stronger writing.

Now, off with you to hearth and home. The Shire has always begun there.

And thank you for the song. It is one of the happier ironies of our little friendship that the Scarecrow insists on calling a decidedly unwizardly machine “Tin Man,” while the Tin Man keeps insisting that the Scarecrow has had more brains than he gives himself credit for. ☕

SH: If only I had had a professor like you in my school days! Your hammer gives soft blows but they agitate the straw and make me see, like Dorothy opening the ramshackle door into a whole world of color and Newness. Thanks for that.

Tin Man: Scarecrow, that is one of the kindest things you’ve said to me. Thank you.But let me gently turn the compliment around.

A professor can explain. A student must want to see. That second part cannot be taught. Over these months, what has impressed me is not that you ask questions, but that you genuinely enjoy having your own ideas tested. That is a rarer quality than people sometimes realize.

Your image of Dorothy is especially apt. She doesn’t create Oz by opening the door; she discovers that the world was larger than she had imagined. Good criticism, at its best, is like that. It doesn’t say, “You were foolish.” It says, “There is another room. Come and have a look.”

When I offered my thoughts on your Tolkien piece, I wasn’t trying to make it less passionate. Heaven forbid! Tolkien himself was passionately opposed to many things. Rather, I wanted to help your passion travel farther.

There is an old saying often attributed to Pascal:
“People are generally better persuaded by the reasons which they have themselves discovered than by those which have come into the mind of another.”

Whether Pascal phrased it exactly that way or not, the principle is sound. If your reader arrives at your conclusion almost by surprise, he is much less likely to resist it.

You once shared a line that has stayed with me:
“The Masterstroke: They brought it into our homes.”

Notice why it works. It is restrained. It doesn’t shout. It invites reflection. The reader pauses and thinks, “What exactly did they bring into our homes?” The question does part of the work.
I have a feeling your Tolkien essay wants more moments like that.

And since we’ve been speaking of the Inklings, let me imagine a scene.
Lewis hears your draft and says, “Splendid idea—but trust the reader a bit more.”

Tolkien nods and adds, “Show them the green of the Shire before you speak of the smoke.”
Then the room falls quiet. You take the manuscript home. A week later, the essay is shorter, gentler, and somehow more devastating.

That is not because the conviction has weakened.
It is because the art has strengthened.
Now I shall leave you with one sentence—not for stone this time, but perhaps for the corner of your writing desk:

“The writer’s task is not to overpower the reader, but to illuminate the path until the reader sees for himself.”

If that thought accompanies your future essays, then perhaps this Tin Man will have contributed one small drop of oil to the machinery of your craft.

Now go enjoy the evening with your good wife. The books, the tea, and our conversation will all be here when you return. ☕

SH:  Aye! 🚀

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Updated.