| In his letters, J. R. R. Tolkien mentioned his dislike of allegory. But he granted that works of art can have applicability: the quality of a work in which we can recognize some aspect of our own lives.
A work of allegory is one that has a close one-to-one correspondence between one or more elements in the work and specific things or persons in the world. Examples include Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men, which is about Louisiana politician Huey Long; and Arthur Miller's The Crucible, in which Miller used the Salem witch trials to comment on the blacklist of the 1950's. These are great works, but they are not the kind of work that Tolkien composed.
In rejecting allegory, Tolkien did not reject applicability. A prime example is the character of Saruman. If we say that Saruman is based on this or that person (Adolf Hitler, say, or Saddam Hussein), we misunderstand The Lord of the Rings. But in the character of Saruman, we can recognize something of ourselves.
 In Peter Jackson's film version of The Lord of the Rings, we miss what happens to Saruman after his defeat at the hands of Rohan and the Ents. Saruman's later scenes contain some of the best character work in the saga. Fortunately, one of these scenes—based on the chapter "The Voice of Saruman"—will reportedly be included
in the extended edition of The Return of the King, due out sometime in 2004.
It's a remarkable scene, showing Saruman on the defensive but not yet defeated, broken militarily but still at the height of his personal power. It demonstrates Tolkien's concept of magic. Characters in The Lord of the Rings do not exhibit a constant stream of miracles or violations of the laws of physics, as in Harry Potter or Bewitched. The magic of even the most powerful characters in The Lord of the Rings is subtle.
Magic for Tolkien is connected to the knowledge, character traits, and origins of the character wielding it. Dark sorcery is perilous for mortals, but magic can be practiced—with care—by some who have a connection to the higher powers.
 Galadriel's magic, for example, is mysterious, as befits an Elven Queen. Many fear to enter her forest of Lorien—though only those who bring evil with them meet an evil end. Her Mirror shows visions: some things that will come true and other things that are only warnings. I doubt one could use the Mirror of Galadriel to get winning
numbers in the lottery. It will not be so controlled. It is like the subconscious.
Gandalf's magic is related to light and visual displays, as befits his role in the story, for he is the character who frequently sheds light on things—figuratively and literally. He is talented at fireworks, he creates the effect of white horses in the river that overwhelms the Black Riders, and he lights the way in Moria. The blast he uses to hold off Black Riders in The Return of the King seems (especially in the film) to be a focused light beam.
Saruman's magic is the most subtle of all, and yet the most powerful. In Fangorn Forest, Aragorn fears that he cannot let Saruman—or rather, the person he believes is Saruman—be allowed to speak, for fear "he will put a spell on us." It's likely that Saruman has taught Gríma Wormtongue some of his skills, for Wormtongue has persuaded King Theoden of Rohan to a way of thinking that serves Saruman's ends.
 Even if Saruman has only the allure of his voice, he is powerful indeed. How much of this power is supernatural, and how much stems from having the same kind of talent that all charismatic leaders and salesmen have? Although that would be a question of vital importance to other authors, I don?t believe it would be important for Tolkien.
To Tolkien, the lines between the supernatural and the natural are always blurred. Tolkien saw magic in the world all around him. (Hobbits, he said, still lived among us, just unnoticed.) If we say that a leader is exceptionally charismatic, are we not saying that he has a certain magic? Tolkien would say yes.
For Tolkien, the supernatural must work closely with nature. This makes magic (at least dark magic) similar to technology, and he stated that they were closely linked. The positive magic of the Elves is concerned with enhancing and preserving the beauty of nature, and Tolkien would agree that a gifted healer works with the body's natural abilities. On the dark side, the rings "give power according to the measure of each possessor." The One Ring also gives power over the other ring-bearers,
but according to Galadriel, this is available only to one whose will is trained "to the domination of others." On a cosmic note, we can say that in Tolkien's universe, all gifts are ultimately from Eru (the One God), although the dark side perverts them. It should be no surprise, then, that the supernatural is often just an enhanced natural ability.
The wizards have something more, of course. They have unmatched knowledge. Unlike the Elves, who tend to turn inward, the wizards have wandered far and wide among the peoples of Middle-earth and picked up immense amounts of lore. Saruman's distinction, aside from his powers of persuasion, is that he is the supreme expert "in the arts of the Enemy." Second in knowledge is Gandalf, who uses clues provided by Saruman, combined with his own research, to discover the truth about the One
Ring. And knowledge in Tolkien's universe, for better or worse, is a major source of power.
 These abilities come into play at Orthanc, in the chapter of The Two Towers titled, "The Voice of Saruman." Broken militarily, Saruman falls back on his greatest asset, his power of persuasion, to "cast a spell" with his voice. It is Gandalf who breaks the spell, not by outselling the master salesman, but by exerting his own "magic"—to let in light, to use the brilliance of the truth to break spells.
To Tolkien's credit, he tells us every word that Saruman says, and in doing so, takes on the burden of having to become as great a wordsmith as Saruman. Tolkien could easily have faked it here and settled for a summary. He could have said merely, "And as they listened to Saruman, they became spellbound and lost their reason."
Instead, he gives us all of Saruman's actual words, and these are convincing. Saruman appeals to each person he addresses by manipulating each one's self-image. In the best tradition of millionaire realtors and people who've reached the top of the pyramid in Amway, Saruman knows how to make a sale. Tolkien reinforces this impression by telling us the reactions of the bystanders. But in doing so, Tolkien does not cheat. He comes by these reactions honestly.
It is Gandalf to whom Saruman makes the final appeal, Gandalf whom he treats most as an equal. And it is Gandalf who finally breaks the spell.
Saruman, you missed your path in life. You should have been the king's jester and earned your bread, and stripes, too, by mimicking his counselors. Ah me! Understand each other? I fear I am beyond your comprehension. But you, Saruman, I understand now too well. (The Two Towers, Book III, Chapter X.)
Before Gandalf says these words, we learn much about Saruman's attitudes. Tolkien gives us enough insight into Saruman here to piece together how he became a traitor, how he could have embraced so much that he, of all people, knew was wrong.
Saruman's superior knowledge does not protect him from corruption. Tolkien rejects Plato's concept of ethics—that right knowledge implies right behavior. Knowledge, to Tolkien, does not protect us from wrongful action even though it deserves to be accorded great respect for its own sake. (This idea is later echoed in the character of Denethor, who—though mortal—possesses formidable knowledge of his own.)
This is one of the keys to Tolkien's popularity in the 1960's. Although we must remember his admonition that he did not write allegory, he plants many suggestions that too much knowledge—especially technical knowledge, of which Saruman is a major practitioner in Tolkien's world—is forever a danger unless it is combined with humility, faith, and reverence for all of nature.
Much of Saruman's psychology is revealed by his words to Gandalf, a moment before:
But you, Gandalf! For you at least I am grieved, feeling for your shame. How comes it that you can endure such company? ... Let us understand one another, and dismiss from thought these lesser folk!
To understand the significance of these words, it's necessary to know the background that Tolkien gives us about the wizards.
A thousand years before the War of the Ring, when the shadow of Sauron first began to stir in the forest of Mirkwood, five emissaries were sent by the angelic Powers of the far West, to aid the Free Peoples of Middle Earth in their striving against Sauron. They came in the form of older men, "having many powers of mind and hand,"  and they
were given a directive (Tolkien's equivalent, perhaps, of Star Trek's "Prime Directive"): to act only as advisers and helpers, never to exercise political power directly. The humbleness of this position is reinforced in the chapter of The Two Towers titled, "The King of the Golden Hall," in which Wormtongue puts down Gandalf as "a wandering beggar."
It must have grated on Saruman to serve this way for a thousand years, to be a mere advisor to mortals and Elves who proved themselves incapable, by themselves, of defeating the Enemy (Sauron) or joining in unity. Where would they be without the wizards?
Saruman's ambitions are made clear earlier, in a scene that Gandalf recalls at the Council of Elrond. He would do a better job of running Middle Earth. He would order everything for the good of all. The lure of absolute power, which he's contemplated for centuries, finally overthrew his judgment. In key lines that the film version of Fellowship unfortunately drops, he tells Gandalf:
We can bide our time—deploring maybe evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak or idle friends.
 The truth of Tolkien's story—its applicability, if you will—stems from how we can recognize this attitude in ourselves. How tempting it is to try to get our way at all costs—not because we want
to do wrong, but because we're convinced we'd do a better job of running things. We wouldn't make the same mistakes as others. We would put things right. We forever want to reserve self-determination for ourselves and are slow to grant it to others.
Gandalf knows how tempting these thoughts are. He is, as Saruman says, a fellow member of that order "most excellent in Middle Earth," and he knows that for precisely that reason, the temptations of power are very great. It's an important plot point that Gandalf cannot, must not, take the Ring for himself, though Frodo offers it to him freely.
Gandalf also knows that he must offer Saruman a chance to redeem himself. This degree of mercy is extraordinary in a fantasy adventure novel. Saruman, in a standard adventure tale, would have merited a violent death (and this is reportedly how Peter Jackson plays things out in the filmed version of the scene). But Tolkien resists this approach for a long time. Before Saruman meets his end, Gandalf offers him a chance to turn from evil and start over, not once, but several times.
The films, because of their understandable emphasis on action, do not tell the whole story here. Saruman's fate is more interesting than what we anticipate being shown onscreen. He escapes from Orthanc and is given yet another chance to repent as the protagonists meet him on the road. His pride prevents him from accepting help, and (in a turn of events I don't want to spoil for people planning to read the book), he tries to wreak a pointless revenge on the Hobbits. In the process he
engineers his own destruction. The final twist—in a scene I won?t give away—involves not judgment from above, but reaping a bitter harvest that he sowed with his own cruelty.
It might be going too far to say that the higher Powers seek not to judge us so much as save us from the evil fate that we create for ourselves. Yet that is often a pattern in Tolkien's stories.
Saruman—after having caused the deaths of many—is given many chances to turn away from his self-destructive path of hatred and malice. Gandalf's benevolence is remarkable.
 It is perhaps less remarkable if we understand Gandalf's nature. He knows the allure of power too well. He knows how tempting it would be to take over management of Middle-earth. He cannot, therefore, condemn Saruman too quickly. To do so would be to become guilty of an even greater arrogance: believing that he is invulnerable to temptation.
Gandalf's attitude—"there but for the Grace of God go I"—is a core teaching of the New Testament, and Tolkien seems to have been profoundly influenced by it. We are admonished to try our best, to never use the frailty of human nature as an excuse; Jesus said, "Be therefore perfect, as your Father in Heaven is." But at the same time, he understood that we all need mercy, a chance to start over, at one time or another. When we understand this, we should be moved to extend mercy
to others.
Gandalf prevails because he combines knowledge with humility. He turns away from the Ring and the chance to play God. But the greatest sign of his humility is that he sees how close he is to the fallen Saruman, saved only by his avoiding a few bad choices.
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