George Orwell hating the detective stories of Dorothy L. Sayers doesn't surprise me so much; I've read enough of Orwell's writing to know that the fellow had strong and nasty opinions about many authors whom I like, and didn't like women very much at all. But J. R. R. Tolkien writing to his son Christopher that he loathed Gaudy Night and loathed Sayers and Harriet Vane and that Busman's Honeymoon made him feel sick is…something. That's really something. Sayers collided with the Inklings scene at one point, and I know that Jack Lewis conceived an animus towards Sayers (q.v. the character of "Fairy" Hardcastle in That Hideous Strength, who seems aimed at Sayers) and maybe Tolkien did as well.
(sighs) Tolkien is quite fallen as a pop-culture hero, in my eyes anyway. I'm still deeply attached to his work, but now I feel like the man himself is in desperate need of harsh critical reassessment, just as it's well past time for a merciless dissection of Clive Staples Lewis and his posthumous cult. In a just and well-tempered literary culture, I daresay that Tolkien ought to be remembered more the way that his friend Charles Williams is remembered as a fascinating oddity, a writer of vision but not the godfather of all fantasy literature. Ironically, it seems as if Prof. Tolkien himself was profoundly ambivalent about his own fantastical writings. Oughtn't there to be more attention to Tolkien's misgivings about his own work? Is it actually a good thing to be locked into imitating and emulating his laborious, lore-heavy approach to writing fiction?
#dorothy-sayers #tolkien #cslewis



