ok you know that ‘make the princess laugh and you can have her hand in marriage’ thing?
imagine so many come in.
they try, so hard, to make her laugh.
she just sits there, morose, ignoring every man who tries to coax a smile.
one day she’s sitting on the balcony. she just looks so sad.
of course that little thief tries to make her smile.
a girl who goes through the (semi public) royal gardens every day to pick flowers, even though technically only the royal family is allowed to do that.
she sees the princess while she’s picking them up to sell on the streets, and she’s just… so sad. this princess needs someone to cheer her up.
and she tries. she’ll do silly dances when she comes in, she’ll bring up frogs from ponds and act out comedies, she’ll make flower crowns and exaggerate just how hard it is.
the first few days, the princess doesn’t even look at her.
then she starts noticing. this girl, trying so hard to cheer her up. she probably hasn’t even heard of the hand in marriage thing, she doesn’t know she’s trying so hard for nothing.
but she does it anyway.
one day, the princess starts talking to her as she does these things. “You do know that it’s useless?”
“What?” the thief says. “No way! I’m going to get you to laugh!”
“The best jesters in the kingdom have tried, don’t bother,” the princess declared pessimistically, staring down at the girl.
Then the thief puffs out her chest, “Of course I am! I’ll find the best jokes, even better than the jesters have found! I’ll… fight a fire breathing dog for them!”
There’s no laugh, but the corner of the princess’s mouth twitches. it’s sad how she thinks she can make me laugh…
the girl keeps trying, for years, making more silly stories and trading flowers for jokes rather than food or money. the princess slowly realizes the girl is getting closer and closer, asking her for responses in knock knock jokes and encouraging her to speak when she wouldn’t respond immediately.
the princess eventually had the girl hanging from her balcony, holding on tight to the rail and feet wedged between the columns, grinning and telling yet another iteration of that already old chicken joke.
the princess has been smiling, slightly, but she mostly just looks unresponsive. the girl is happy, it’s better than looking so sad, like she had been years before.
the girl moves on to puns, pointing at the exotic lunch the princess was eating. “Why do the melons have to go to get married? They cantaloupe!”
“You only know that word because of me,” the princess snarks, but there’s a small smile there, a bit of happiness. This little flower girl, this thief has grown into an amazing friend, a wonderful person who genuinely just wants to help. she doesn’t know of the deal, only nobles and jesters could know, not the commonfolk.
“Well, it makes quite the pun,” the girl says, proud of her joke. a smile! what an accomplishment!
“Say…” she continued, “What would you call a princess who got swept up in conversation a thief?” she pulled a flower out of her pocket, waving it in front of the princess’s face. the princess’s eyes crossed to see the flower before they rolled at the obvious setup.
though, it was interesting that it obviously involved them.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, sighing in preparation for another horrible pun. “What?”
the girl grinned. “A pretty theft!” she exclaimed, ticking the flower against the princess’s nose.
the princess froze for a moment, stunned. she had been complimented a million times over, called graceful by etiquette instructors, been called beautiful by many a suitor, been called wonderful by her mother before… she stopped thinking about that.
she had never been called pretty.
she burst into laughter at the commonplace compliment, as if she was some sort of milkmaid who had somehow grown up to be good looking! it was ridiculous, the notion, yet somehow it had her blushing all the same.
then she suddenly stopped, realizing what she’d done.
the flower thief was staring at her in amazement, a blush of her own speckling her cheeks. her flower tilted out from in front of the princess’s nose, as if it had it’s own amazement.
“Wow…” the girl breathed. she’d never heard something so beautiful in her life.
The princess was silent, knowing what she had just done. She had just laughed for the first time in years.
The girl may not have been aware of the arrangement, but she was quickly swept up in it. A maid had heard the laughter and burst in, to find the thief and the princess, caught up in each other’s eyes, reveling in what had just happened.
The wedding was beautiful, a flower filled affair, a wonderful nod to how it happened. The king was so happy to see his daughter with someone who made her smile for once, tearing up as they were wed.
The princess’s laugh was still incredibly rare. She still had a hard time smiling. But a well timed joke from the girl– no, her wife– and another flower that had a hidden meaning behind it, than maybe, maybe you would hear it.
After all, the princess had finally laughed with the one she loved.
The initial image is a size comparison between the statue of liberty and a wind turbine. The wind turbine is over ninety feet (about 28 meters) taller.
A commenter pretended to misinterpret the image as one of a wind turbine attacking the statue of liberty. The next commenter answered with an image of Don Quixote, a literary character who once thought a windmill was a monster and announced his plans to fight it. They are joking that if a wind turbine attacked the statue of liberty, Don Quixote would be willing to fight the wind turbine.
Incidentally, that scene led to the English idiom “tilting at windmills,” meaning a person who has not only disproportionate reactions of anger, but disproportionate reactions of anger to nonexistent challenges.
So all those people who are fighting to preserve coal jobs and the fossil fuel economy are….
actually…
tilting at windmills.
I feel like this is one of the very few times where explaining the joke leads to another one that everyone can now understand and laugh at
One of the ballsiest things Tolkien ever did was write 473k words about some hobbits called frodo, sam, merry, and pippin and then write in the appendices that their names are actually maura, ban, kali, and razal.
This just in: Eowyn and Eomer’s names actually start with the letter “L.” [source for other nerds]
What you’ve got to understand is that everything Tolkien wrote was him pretending to merely translate ancient documents. He was writing as if the Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings were actually been written by Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam (or Bilba, Maura, and Ban) and he was just some random contemporary academic translating it all into English for us.
There are many languages in his books, but generally speaking, everything written in English in the books is a translation of the language “Westron.” Therefore any names that come from Westron, he translated. Names coming from other languages, like Sindarin, he left as they were. Why? IDK. Maybe because the stories are from a hobbit perspective and hobbits speak Westron, so he wanted the Westron parts to sound familiar and the other languages/names to remain foreign?
“But Mirkwoodest!” you cry, “The word ‘hobbit’ isn’t an English word! And the names Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Peregrin Took, and Meriadoc Brandybuck” all sounds super weird and not like English at all!”
Psych! They are in English! (Or Old English, German, or Norse.) Once again you underestimate what a nerd Tolkien was. Let me break it down:
In Westron, hobbits are actually called “kuduk,” which means “hole-dweller,” so for an English translation, Tolkien called them “hobbits” which is a modernization of the Old English word “holbytla” which comes from “Hol” (hole) and “Bytla”(builder).
“Maura” is a Westron name which means “Wise.” Weirdly enough, “Frodo” is an actual Proto-Germanic name that actual people used to have and it means the same thing.
“Razanur” means “Traveler” or “Stranger” which is also the meaning of the word “Peregrin(e)” This one is a twofer because “Razar” means “a small red apple” and in English so does “Pippin.”
“Kalimac” apparently is a meaningless name in Westron, but the shortened form “Kali” means “happy,” so Jirt decided his nickname would be “Merry” and chose the really obscure ancient Celtic name “Meriodoc” to match.
Jirt chose to leave “Bilba” almost exactly the same in English, but he changed the ending to an “O” because in Westron names ending in “a” are masculine.
I’m not going to go on and talk about the last names but those all have special meanings too (except Tûk, which is too iconic to change more than the spelling of, apparently).
The Rohirrim were also Westron speakers first and foremost, so their names are also “translations” into Old English and Proto-Germanic words, i.e. “Eowyn” is a combination of “Eoh” (horse) and “Wynn” (joy/bliss).
“Rohirrim/Rohan” are Sindarin words, but in the books, they call themselves the “Éothéod” which is an Old English/Norse combo that means “horse people.” Tolkien tells us in the “Peoples of Middle Earth” that the actual Westron for “Éothéod” is Lohtûr, which means that Eowyn and Eomer’s names, which come from the same root word, must also start with the letter L.
The names of all the elves, dwarves, Dunedain, and men from Gondor are not English translations, since they come from root words other than Westron.
The takeaway from this is that when a guy whose first real job was researching the history and etymology of words of Germanic origin beginning with the letter “W” writes a book, you can expect this kind of tomfoolery.
Notes: Sorry I said “Razal” instead of “Razar” in my original post I’m a fraud.
Stuff like this is EXACTLY why I feel like there’s so much room for more diverse, inclusive reinterpretation of Tolkien’s work. Because if you look at the way Tolkien’s contemporaries translated real writings from real historical cultures, there’s a lot of assumption of whiteness, maleness, and heteronormativity that isn’t actually in the text. Going with the concept that Tolkien was translating the mythohistory of an existing culture, it makes sense that a white Catholic Oxford don born in the Edwardian era would take for granted that all beautiful highborn people are white, all male relationships are platonic, all marriages are heterosexual, most people in conventionally male roles are men, and everyone is cisgender. So it’s totally in keeping with Tolkien’s premise, I think, to approach his Middle-earth writings like, “Okay, what could be the real story here as opposed to how a white English dude born in 1903 would have translated it?”
It happened in a garden. It happened when his hereditary enemy slithered up beside him and they watched human history unfold for the very first time in front of their eyes and out of their reach, wondering about Right And Wrong when really they ought to have been wondering why they were standing side by side.
As the first rain drops fell they huddled together, one Fallen Angel and one About To Fall but in a different way, hovering on a precipe he did not see until centuries later. The snake’s yellow, amused eyes had burned themsleves into his being, and Aziraphale had known back then that they would never quite leave him. He extended one wing, and with it an unspoken invitation.
It happened in Rome, when against his better judgement he approached the demon he should have been thwarting only to offer him temptation, of all things, and to rejoice when he received a smile and dinner company. Aziraphale had loved oysters before, but that day they had tasted sweeter. He’d credited Petronius.
It happened in London–where it would happen many times more–when Crowley did Good for his sake and Aziraphale betrayed Heaven for logic; when he could no longer deny that they were opposing forces complementing each other as shadow complements light. Maybe they weren’t cancelling each other out. Maybe they were completing each other.
They came to agree on an Arrangement, a transgression that felt far too right to be so very wrong, not when it was him he was transgressing with (and when it changed nothing of the outcome, Aziraphale reminded himself, almost as an afterthought). And not when he suspected that a part of Crowley was rejoicing in the reverse betrayal of Hell, in doing good for Goodness’ sake.
It happened in France, when Aziraphale had been supposed to die and found himself, crêpe in hand, beside an old friend who had saved his life for the hell of it, expecting nothing in return. The sound of Crowley’s voice made his heart beat faster, even if he tried blaming it on the guillotine outside.
It happened in a church, when a demon tread on holy ground to rescue an angel. When Crowley handed him a bag of old books saved by a demonic miracle while Heaven was silent and Aziraphale toppled off that precipe he had been balancing on for thousands of years. The church was gone but Crowley was still there, waiting for him, and Aziraphale was standing in between rubble but Falling, and his heart ached at the impossibility of it.
It happened in a car–not in a car, in the car, the same one that had driven him home through the Blitz and in which he was now handing his best friend the tool for his destruction because he could not bear to think of a world without Crowley. They had been together since the Beginning, and he needed to know he’d be there with him until the End.
It happened at the End Of All Things, when all was lost and still they could not give up, not the world and not each other. Aziraphale had not been able to run away because he knew there was nowhere to run, but as human history folded in on itself as they stood side by side one last time he realized that Until The End was not enough.
It happened when Aziraphale no longer wondered about Right And Wrong because he knew. It had always been them, side by side, without question. At a bus stop, on a park bench, in a quiet flat, a bustling bookshop, at the Ritz. In a garden. He understood, now. It had happened when they’d started it, and when they had refused to let it end. It had been happening all along, slowly and all at once. And it was still happening.
Aziraphale had not exactly fallen in love: he had sauntered vaguely downwards.
Look at how they framed the shots of Adam’s confrontation with Satan.
He’s got, quite literally, a demon and an angel over each shoulder.
AND THAT’S NOT EVEN THE BEST PART.
Because in those classic depictions of the angel and the devil each perched on a shoulder, the two are always portrayed as fighting with one another, each trying to influence a person for Good or Evil, but HERE they’re not fighting. At least, not with each other.
Though they’ve employed different methods to reach this end, they are united in a common goal. Save Adam. Save the world.
Crowley and Aziraphale are a visual representation of what Adam has within himself – what all humans have within themselves, the potential for good and evil / light and dark / whatever you want to call it.
And I think what this scene is visually implying is that it’s okay to have a bit of both – in fact, it’s probably for the best, given the cruelty we see dished out by those who are purely angel and demon.
Adam has both good and evil within him. All humans do. And THAT is what allows him to choose to rebel against his father. And it’s that very choice which makes the rebellion possible because it proves beyond all doubt that he is something the antichrist could not possibly be – human.
