Discussions about the origins of narrative elements have thrived for as long as modern formalist schools of literary criticism have existed. Scholars exhaustively study and debate from where and when stories spring and why and how they come to us as they do. Folklorists follow tales and hints of tales back through the woven laces of time and tradition, tracing and tugging to see what other threads may move along the warp and woof. Historians, attempting to unravel the interlaced yarns of great sagas, stalk elusive evidence through the oral traditions and literary histories of cultures long dead. But when all knowable stories of all times and places have been studied, documented, categorized and sub-categorized, what then will we know? Just this: the essence of great stories is not found in their bits, however similar these bits may be from one story to the next, or in whatever arrangement. The use of narrative elements and sub-plots, repeated or original, in one work or one dozen, is no explanation for - nor detraction from - a great tale. Our beloved books, these magic carpets we ride into the Otherworlds of fantasy, may be made of colors we have seen before, but they are woven on looms of inspired personal genius.
Addressing the tendencies of some students of folklore to over-simplify the history and making of fairy and fantasy stories, particularly regarding recurring similarities, J.R.R.Tolkien stated in his essay Tree and Leaf that "they are inclined to say that any two stories that are built round the same folk-lore motive, or are made up of a generally similar combination of such motives, are 'the same stories'" (45). Allowing that statements of this kind may be true in a very limited sense, Tolkien said they cannot be fully applied in the context of art or literature, for it is "precisely the colouring, the atmosphere, the unclassifiable individual details of a story, and above all the general purport that informs with life the undissected bones of the plot, that really count" (46). As the subject of much speculation about possible sources for his own plot elements, characters and nomenclature in both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien was admittedly a defender of his own keep, and even he acknowledged feeling the "fascination of the desire to unravel the intricately knotted and ramified history of the branches on the Tree of Tales" (46). Yet Tolkien also quoted George Webbe Dasent, who said "we must be satisfied with the soup that is set before us, and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled" (qtd. in Tolkien 46). Dasent was speaking of philosophy, but in the sense Tolkien meant, and for our purposes here, soup is the "story as it is served by its author" and the bones are "sources or material" (47).
Dasent's metaphor of soup and bones seems both apt and useful, so let us begin there. If a bowl of traditional Scandinavian soup has a few ox bones in it, and a bowl of modern day English soup also boasts a bit of ox, though other ingredients are different, do we say that the two soups are essentially "the same soup"? Certainly not - and perhaps no serious minded scholar would suggest it. But let us say a discussion ensues regarding the originality and creativity of the chef, and from there, to the origins of ox bones in soup. As the conversation continues, epicureans may hotly debate whether the use of ox bones as an ingredient in soups originated in the north, middle or south of Europe, or in England itself, and in what century, and what particular sort of ox was first used, and where the oxen may have come from before that, and how the ox may have been slaughtered or prepared, and how many ox bones were required to bring it to the proper flavor. We may argue all night - as our ox bone soup grows cold - and whatever we conclude, the two soups will not by virtue of a similar ingredient be the same soup, or even soups which are very much alike. The most we can say is that the two soups have ox bones in them. If we discover upon further inquiry that the English chef is a student of Scandinavian cooking, we might then speculate about borrowed ingredients, or discuss issues of inspiration regarding the use of ox bones, but nonetheless this soup before us is made solely by the chef we hear whistling in the kitchen and is not "the same soup" as any other soup we have tasted or here debated.
To look at this in another way, even when comparing extremely similar sorts of soups, we can still find matters of difference. We cannot say, for example, that Campbell's chicken soup is "the same soup" as my grandmother's homemade chicken soup, nor even that chicken soup made with rice is "the same soup" as the same chicken soup made with noodles, even if every other ingredient is exactly alike. And in fact, this week's pot of chicken soup with rice is not the same pot of chicken soup with rice my grandmother served me last month. Even if the ingredients of the soup were measured out with microscopic accuracy from batch to batch (which they certainly are not), the weather - barometric pressure, temperature, and humidity - is different on each occasion of soup stewing and this may affect the quality of the soup in some way. Or, if nothing else, then I myself am different as I eat it: in a different mood, of a different appetite, with different thoughts and inclinations. Therefore, to me, it is not "the same soup." Time and space and create difference, in either the soup or in myself, even when nothing else does.
Taking this argument in its entirety with a grain of salt - or ox bone - for the moment, let us now take a wider view. With a work of literature, if a reader were to ask an author just how he wrote a book, and from where all of his ideas came, in an attempt to determine what was truly original, it is unlikely the writer could articulate one-tenth of the answer that is sought. If he had two nickels worth of creativity in him to begin with, he will say he thought of the whole story "on his own" or that it "came to him" or that it just "seemed to tell itself." As case and point, consider that in January 1938, the Observer published a letter from a reader asking whether hobbits might have been suggested to Tolkien by Julian Huxley's account of 'the "little furry men" seen in Africa by natives…and at least one scientist'. The letter-writer also said that a friend had mentioned remembering the reading of some old fairy tale called "The Hobbit" round about 1904, and he further inquired whether the cup-stealing and dragon episode in Beowulf had not inspired Bilbo's similar theft of the dragon Smaug? Tolkien's reply included the following comments: that he did not "remember anything about the name and inception of the hero" though Tolkien admitted he was born in Africa and had read several books on African exploration. He remembered reading "even more books of fairy-tales of the genuine kind" but said that he had "no waking recollection of furry pigmies" nor of "any Hobbit bogey in print by 1904." He then added, as if it needed pointing out, "my hobbit did not live in Africa [and] was not furry, except about the feet." Finally, in reference to the Beowulf question, Tolkien said this: "Beowulf is among my most valued sources; though it was not consciously present on the mind in the process of writing, in which the episode of the theft arose naturally (and almost inevitably) from the circumstances. It is difficult to think of any other way of conducting the story at that point. I fancy the author of Beowulf would say the same." (All qtd. from Letters 30)
As Tolkien points out in these brief comments, even if similarities were found - in name or appearance - between two species of creature in literature called hobbits, it is the differences that would make them, well, different. In much the same way, with the two grab-and-run treasure trove incidents in Beowulf and The Hobbit, we find there are ample dissimilarities. In any case, if you envision the nameless slave-burglar and hoard-guarding dragon in Beowulf, and also envision frightened little Bilbo fleeing from still-slumbering Smaug, whether you think the scenes to be very much alike, or very unlike, really does not matter. (In fact, familiarity may foster delight - but that is another argument.) What counts is whether you picture these scenes at all, in those Otherworlds created by their authors, and whether you desire to remain engaged there in a state of belief and see what happens next. Just as we know Dunsany's Elfland from Erl, or Tolkien's Shire from England primarily by their differences, so too we know one tale from the next: by the singularities of space, time, setting, names, inhabitants, and events. The combination of thousands of peculiarities is what makes stories by writers like Tolkien great. Just as Emerson said in his essay The Poet, "Talent may frolic and juggle; genius realizes and adds" (Emerson 265).
To pick up the threads of our discussion about tapestries and magic carpets, let us now consider what Tolkien said about the effects and operations that produce fairy stories. Tolkien named three primary sources of creative story telling, which he referred to as independent invention, inheritance and diffusion. He observed that there is a tendency to over-simplify when debating the matter and maintains that "the history of fairy stories is probably more complex than the physical history of the human race" (47). In a footnote, Tolkien adds that with pictures in tapestries, the picture is greater than, and not explained by, the sum of the component threads. "Therein lies the weakness of the analytic (or "scientific") method," says Tolkien. "It finds out much about things that occur [italics mine] in stories, but little or nothing about their effect [italics mine] in any given story." In addition, Tolkien states "Diffusion (borrowing in space) whether an artefact or a story, only refers the problem of origin elsewhere" (48). Thus, even if we view Bilbo's golden cup stealing as a throwback to the burglar v. dragon scene in Beowulf - though Tolkien claims he did not have this specifically in mind when he wrote The Hobbit and I think we ought to believe him - we must still grapple with the question of where the author of Beowulf got his idea for burglarizing dragons lairs. Was it original, or borrowed? And assuming, if such a thing were traceable, that we could follow the strand ever backwards and discover its origins and relations, what then? Since so many elements play parts in weaving stories, I think we can agree with Tolkien when he said, "it is now beyond all skill but that of the elves to unravel it" (Tolkien 47).
Interlaced with imagery both strange and familiar, the intricate tapestries of stories are not easily understood or unmade. How and why do we begin to take apart what has been created? Reasons for guessing at the elements of soup recipes may be to reproduce the soup in our own kitchen or merely satisfy our curiosity, and if we love the soup and try to learn what makes it great, we pay tribute to the chef. But when reductive critics address a work of fantasy or fiction, paring down and condensing as they go, it seems their main purpose is to say, "See now - this story isn't so great, or so original." In this case, it is the critic's loss that in his pretentious and persnickety examination of the work, he loses the flavor of the whole - or perhaps missed the flavor in the first place, having set out from the start to diminish rather than praise. True to task, he overlooks the savory essence of the whole soup and also fails to notice the gorgeous tapestry that hangs near his table. In literary circles as in life, it seems that critics who wish to denigrate will do so - whatever soup is set before them.

Works Cited
J.R.R. Tolkien. The Tolkien Reader. New York: Del Ray, 1966.
Ralph Waldo Emerson Selected Essays. New York: Penguin Classics, 1982.