MIT Reprints

A Beer with J. R. R. Tolkien

Samuel Jay Keyser

Jay Keyser's reminiscence of his encounter with the legendary scholar and author J.R.R. Tolkien, reprinted below, was broadcast on National Public Radio's All Things Considered on August 23, 2004. The editors hope it will inaugurate a recurring feature in the Newsletter -- reprints of recently published short pieces that have broad general interest. We urge our colleagues to submit their own work or to recommend pieces by others for this new feature. Keyser's essay is reprinted by permission of National Public Radio.

Practically everyone hearing this will have seen or read J.R.R. Tolkien's trilogy, The Lord of the Rings . But I'll bet very few of you have ever had a beer with him. I have.

The first time I saw him was in 1958 in a lecture hall at Oxford University. He was the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon. I had never read his trilogy. For me he was simply a stunning translator of an Old English poem called Exodus and, of all things, a Middle English manual for nuns, the Ancrene Wisse. In Rumpelstilskin fashion, he spun the words of these long dead writers into gold.

Being the only American studying Old English in the class, I stood out like, well, a hobbit's foot in a Gucci shoe. It wasn't my accent. It was me – eager and seduced by the Oxford-ness of it all. As Tolkien stood at the lectern explicating Exodus , I peppered him with questions about the language, the text, the culture. Whereas most Oxford dons would have been put off by my American brashness, Tolkien was generous in his responses.

The day of our beer was the last day of finals, a grueling week of testing. I had just come out of the dingy Examination Schools into the coppery light of the afternoon when I ran into him.

"You're the American?" he asked. "Exams go well enough?"

The words, spoken in a rapid-fire voice shot out of a thin lipped, jowly face, and over teeth stained from years of clenching tobacco pipes.

"Got time for a beer?" I replied. "And I'll tell you. It's on me."

A pub is one of England's greatest contributions to a decent social life, ranking right up there with the Magna Carta. This one was a fine example: smoky, beery, dark-wooded and filled with patrons. In one corner a dart game was in progress. I ordered a pint of bitter. I don't remember what Tolkien drank.

The remarkable thing about remarkable people is how much they are like us. They have achieved greatness. Still, they scowl when their pipes go out and they enjoy conversation over a good pint just like the rest of us. I told Tolkien that I was going back to America to study linguistics. He said – wistfully – that he would like to visit America someday. He had been scheduled to go the previous year to receive an honorary degree from Harvard. But his wife Edith's illness prevented it.

We drained our glasses and said our goodbyes. There was a touch of sadness in his voice. Today I like to imagine why. Back then, in 1958, Tolkien was just a year away from retirement. Having only just retired myself, it has taken me a lifetime to savor how bittersweet that passage must have been for him. I have come to learn that retirement dissolves the mystical bonds that exist between a teacher and a student. Now I think of that beer with J.R.R.Tolkien as a kind of farewell toast. We are saying goodbye to Oxford. We are saying goodbye to what connected us.

Then again, maybe he was just thirsty.

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