I avoided it for decades. I had a bad feeling about it. It’s not my genre, I said to myself. It’s not my thing; I’m not going to like it. But as the years passed, the pressure of friends and family mounted. They told me this is a book for the ages, a foundational tome for all who appreciate great literature. Then, I read Stephen King’s book on writing. In those hallowed pages of writing genius, I learned that of all stories ever written, Stephen King wishes it was his name written on the cover of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
That comment finally pushed me over the edge. I tried to harness my inner hobbit as I readied myself for the journey into Middle Earth. There were some good parts. What’s not to like about the Hobbits? The Black Riders get some suspense going. The Elf, Wizard, Human, Hobbit, and Dwarf team have some entertaining interactions as they walk everywhere. The whole “one-ring, power corrupts, gold band with a mind of its own, only the weak shall lead them” idea is as fascinating a storyline as any other, and the last bit of the book amps up the adventure to such a degree that you are forced to keep reading the next volume in the series.
But the heavy ploughing one must endure to unearth the good bits was no small exercise in grinding perseverance!
When it comes to learning about the cultural expediencies of hobbits or the tedious unpacking of their various ancestries, I don’t care. On Elven genealogies, what am I missing? I painfully suffered through them like a dutiful Bible college student having to focus on Leviticus in an Old Testament Survey class. And the songs, does everyone else like the songs? There are more songs in this first Lord of the Rings book than my iTunes playlist, and that’s saying something! This should be a musical, not a book.
What the crank is the deal with Tom Bombadil? This large, overly happy man prances out of the forest in a blue jacket and bright yellow boots. He sings to the forest, the hobbits, and his beloved wife, who sings back to him. Amidst the joyful frivolity, the hobbits are rescued from the evil designs of some very naughty trees. Tom lectures the trees, feeds the hobbits and then sends them on their way. The last we see of Tom he is skipping over hill and dale dancing his way back into the forest, singing at the top of his lungs. The reader is left scratching his head. Strange, bizarre, weird.
As we go along, I learn about
what is to the east and the west, over in the north and down in the south. This mountain range is over there, and that forest is over yonder. The geographical descriptions go on and on. I feel like I should be looking at a map and question if I’ve misplaced my book for an Icelandic travel log.
Language is another challenge; at one point in the story, we go straight into the Elven tongue—no English at all. All the keywords seem to be connected to ancient Elvin or dwarf language. The author joyfully spends page after page on etymology, much to the suffering of this poor reader.
But thanks to the encouragement of those around me, I soldiered on, and I am proud to say that I did not “DNF” Tolkien (Did Not Finish). Although, if it weren’t for his reputation, I surely would have. That said, I am well on my way through his second book in the trilogy, which has dramatically improved upon the first. I’m cautiously optimistic that, in the end, I won’t regret the many hours I have invested in travelling through Middle Earth.
