I’ve been reading a lot of Tolkien this year, among other authors, and can say he offers an escape worthy of the time and brainpower it takes to digest his world-building, maps, pronunciation guides, timelines, and versatile storytelling formats. I’d never read Tolkien’s works before, but I’d seen the Peter Jackson – helmed The Lord of the Rings films and decided to attempt the feat of pouring my eyeballs over the entire epic journey of the ring bearer and his companions in written format from start to finish, and then some.
I spent many cold, winter mornings and evenings curled up on our blue couch, or in a chair by the window, my toes cozy with the warmth provided by the baseboard heater. I’d toss a throw blanket over my lap, my steaming mug of tea or coffee or glass of red wine – close at hand, getting safely lost in the pages of a very dangerous and complicated fictional world. Let’s just say if your brain’s at risk of turning into mashed potatoes, just read through a Tolkien Appendix or “The Battle of Unnumbered Tears” chapter in The Children of Hurin and you’ll be sorted for at least a little while.
I started with The Hobbit, a prequel to “the trilogy”, after seeking the advice of a friend. As the story began, I met a Tookish hobbit named Bilbo Baggins who both craved adventure and was resistant to it. I recognized such a personality immediately, sharing in these traits myself. I joined Bilbo, Gandalf, and a company of rhyme-named, treasure-minded dwarves on a romp through parts of Middle-earth from West to East, from The Shire to Erebor, a.k.a. The Lonely Mountain.
I tasted adventure and couldn’t get enough. The names became easier to differentiate and the characters came to life in my mind. I read of trolls, a victory of wits, a rank cave of treasures, and the last homely house in Rivendell. I tensed as wargs and goblins pursued Thorin and his company. I soared to eyries on eagles’ backs and trekked through the endless darkness of Mirkwood, cowering beneath Shelob’s (chatty) spider-spawn and grew intrigued yet suspicious of vanishing, feasting wood elves. I cautioned my thirst at magical streams and hid behind Bilbo as he sweet talked a cunning dragon called Smaug. It all made real life feel a little easier, not having to face those trials first-hand. It made reading “the trilogy” a little easier too.
My Preciouses
It was helpful to come to The Fellowship of the Ring with a lay of the land, to some degree (a familiarity with the films was a helpful crutch as well). Middle-earth is a vast realm and only seems to increase in size the more Tolkien stories I read. The first book of the trilogy fleshed out the maps introduced in The Hobbit. The journey started as The Hobbit had, in the familiarity and comfort of The Shire in the most eastern lands of the old West, with my old, new friend, Bilbo. What ensued was a journey of nothing less than epic proportions, a fantastic escape like a fever dream that lasted over a month and was disappointing to wake from.
I learned that Bilbo’s ring was more than just an invisibility cloak that he employed as a party trick or escape tactic. I learned that The Shire was not exempt from the dangers of the East, as it seemed in The Hobbit, those dangers held at bay by protective, mysterious rangers, men of the sunken West. I met a mischievous, ravenous tree, and was relieved, yet wary, at the rescue of Frodo’s companions by Tom Bombadil, the yellow-booted “master of the land”, who simply is and his wife, Goldberry, the river-daughter, surrounded by bowls of flowers in their cozy respite of a home. As Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin evaded a few of “The Nine” hooded riders on horseback, relief washed over me again, followed by intrigue at the introduction of the mysterious ranger, Strider, in the Prancing Pony tavern who would come to be their guide, protector, and a major power-player in Tolkien’s complicated tale.
The journey continued on, presenting harrowing scrapes with danger, a slightly altered cast of characters from the film adaption, and what seemed like a lot of songs. Tolkien is a poet who expertly plays with words and inserts poetry into prose in a way that adds meat to the story while also explaining some of the history that is helpful to understand the state of things in the “First Age” and “Second Age” of Middle-earth a little better and to bolster the current affairs in the “Third Age” in which the story takes place. His poems sing and while the music probably sounded different in my mind than in his ear, there were indeed the makings of a melody.
Tolkien creates new languages on the basis of existing language foundations and principles, some even possible to learn if you have the interest, patience, and time. I think, personally, I’ll just stick to my Duolingo French for the time being.
Tolkien establishes relationships in the first book of the trilogy as well as an overwhelming sense of obligation, empathy, trust, and apprehension among the shepherds of the ring. Every surety is tested until it is unsure. Curiosity overwhelms and havoc ensues in the form of orc attacks and Balrog-induced cliff-hangers. There is heartbreaking loss, but temporary safety is often a close-following companion.
And then there’s Lorien.
A land of the elves, concealed amid the treetops, a place almost too glorious for human understanding, that none but Tolkien could invent and convey with his magic words.
I went out to buy the next two books before I finished reading The Fellowship.
Funny thing, when you purchase a Lord of the Rings book, it seems to serve as a guaranteed conversation-starter with the bookstore cashier. When buying The Fellowship of the Ring at Labyrinth Books in Princeton, I smiled when the cashier felt compelled to share that Andy Serkis recently narrated a new audio book adaption of The Fellowship of the Ring, just assuming I knew who Andy Serkis was while providing no additional info and ignoring the fact that I was literally handing him my credit card for a paperback copy at that very moment. Luckily, I did know who Andy Serkis was and was able to offer some sort of interested response, because it is my firmly held belief that Andy Serkis was perhaps born with the main purpose of bringing Gollum/Smeagol to life in the LOTR film franchise.
When I bought The Two Towers and The Return of the King at Barnes and Noble, I was met with an, “Awwww; Lord of the Rings! My dad used to read those books to me when I was a kid.” And that’s connection right there, people. I can attest that the secret network of Tolkien fandom is alive and well.
If I read these books as a child, without seeing the movies, I wonder how much of Tolkien’s talent I would have actually appreciated as I floundered to grasp names and races and languages and maps and quarter-turned, counter-clockwise, rotated geography for over a thousand pages. I’d have sunk like the lands in the West, for sure. No, adulthood was necessary, for this reader at least.
I finished The Fellowship and immediately went on to The Two Towers, impatient for the adventure to continue.
If you’re looking for orcs, don’t you worry. They are served up in heaping portions in The Two Towers. I read on, worried as the Fellowship separated due to the divided fates of the young hobbits. I mourned a fallen ally on the banks of the Anduin. My skin itched at the sight of two glowing orbs in the darkness and ice trickled down my spine as Gollum/Smeagol led Frodo and Sam through the Dead Marshes, the description of the faces in the bog and the thought of their cold, flacid skin, vivid as touch in my mind.
I’d walk through my local woods and recognize The Shire in the hill of the Battery, Moria in the Battery bunkers, and the Anduin in the river below. Lorien gleamed in the early morning sunlight, golden on the leaves, while Mirkwood lurked in the fading dusk, ominous with each rustling that broke the static, blue silence. Fangorn was present in the strength of the trees and Isengard invaded where trunks had been felled for restoration. There is no Mordor here, however, and the map is reversed, the lands in the West – now in the East, sunken in the sea.
I dreamed of battle encampment, my imagination hyper-activated in sleep, and the sure menace of orcs and probable doom lying in wait. I didn’t feel ready for certain defeat and stressed over having never wielded a real sword. I didn’t have the courage of the ring bearer and his company. Cold sweat woke me. Disorientation overwhelmed as I fumbled for glasses on my nightstand in the dark, slowly coming to sharpened reality. I reserved my battle-cry for next time, ultimately fading back into a safer dream, shielded by a warm quilt, soft sheets, and safe shelter, a world away from the battles of the Third Age.
Shelob was absolutely horrifying and made me realize that Samwise is perhaps the truest hero in Tolkien’s epic tale for the challenges that his creator constructed for him. (Pro tip! Don’t Google Shelob if you are afraid of spiders.)
Another cliff-hanger ushered me straight into The Return of the King and I found my favorite of Tolkien’s books, so far at least. I really think it would be a tough one to beat, however. The storytelling in this book is more well done than a steak at Chili’s. The way Tolkien unfolded simultaneous events, devoting appropriate attention to each battle, escape, and rescue, all while keeping the story going and maintaining the quality of the character relationships fed a glow of admiration within me. I know I won’t ever equal storytelling like that, but I felt lucky to read storytelling like that and that’s enough for me, I think. We’ll see.
A culminative battle brewed as the fate of the bearer hung uncertain in the hearts of his scattered company. The forces of men, elves, dwarves, wizards and a couple of brave hobbits combined to fight a growing, visible darkness. Dread prickled my scalp as a small company braved the kingdom of the dead on blind trust of their leader, he – destined to rule in an age to come. My heart pattered in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, melted in the fiery waste of Mount Doom, and soared in flight with the eagles, once again. I almost wished it had ended there and to never have known The Shire touched by darkness, but then Merry and Pippin would not have felt themselves worthy of the title of hero in the end, each earning it gloriously, like their other hobbit companions.
Tolkien tugged a few remaining threads on the seams of the story and just like that, it was finished.
I craved the first page and the unknowing mind again. Instead, I sifted through timelines and appendices and that satisfied, for the time being.
Tolkien is a tutor for what language is capable of, what the creative mind is capable of, and the influence a great creative mind can have on other artists, readers, and adventure seekers. Tolkien’s epic storytelling ability is an unreachable destination, a myth, lore – surely, right? And yet, it was achieved by a man of very human proportions (with a heavy dose of talent).
“What has [Tolkien] got in [his] pocketses?” as Gollum might ask.
cozy does it 