Moorcock is right about one thing. Tolkien created beautiful, comforting books. An old man, a war veteran, a codebreaker, wrote books which, among other things, were lullabies-in-prose for children, among others.
Tolkien knew first hand that there are a lot of things in the world to comfort people from.
Moorcock in contrast apparently hates middle class people and A.A. Milne, and somehow consequently anything with the remotest possibility of a hint of patronisingness in its attempts to comfort, which he seemingly rejects, as a principle, not only for himself, but as a universal principle, for everyone.
Consequently begrudges a man who was lucky to have seen and not succumbed in war the comfort of the idealised, or perhaps just past, countryside, of his youth, and the comfort the lilt of his words affords to himself and at others.
I wonder what he'd have to say about the biggles books and their author.
The criticism in my last post applies triple to Elric. He's constantly bumbling around, clueless, putting no forethought or planning into what he does and making unforgivable blunders. Moorcock has a fine sense of style but no sense of strength. Tolkien stacks the deck against the protagonists to a degree he cannot satisfactorily get them out of, but moorcock hands elric everything on a silver platter, has him squander it, then pulls some new deus ex machina out of his arse to keep the book going along.
There's nothing wrong with moorcock rejecting comfort in how he wants to live his life, but there's nothing gritty, realistic, or brave about sneering at people who choose to avail themselves of that resource. It's like a teetotaler not only slapping the alcohol out of a person's hand as they settle down after a hard day at work, but also proceeding to lecture them on it for fifteen minutes, half of which is taken up by beyond vicious personal insults (yes, yes, I'm sure there's far more could be tapped from that particular well if desired, but they're still beyond vicious. If that is somewhere near the beginning rather than the end of your personal insult scale that makes it worse, not better.), and anecdotes about what, yes, are sympathetic stories of moorcock's childhood experiences with what to him were false presumptuous, and insiduous, which I can see how-might provoke a bit of a chip on the shoulder, or a hell of one, but provides not the least excuse for being reduced to the level of snorting pig, even if it wears a top hat and monocle. No excuse a man would accept for himself, anyway.