My first book of fiction purchased, perused and put away, I was ready to move on. And with the upcoming three-year epic film series, the Lord of the Rings, on the horizon, I decided my choice was made. There was, however, the book’s prequel – The Hobbit.
I had read the first page when very young, in a copy that my brother had owned, but could still remember it distinctly “In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit”. It had stuck with me since, and I had never known anything more. That weekend, I went back to my parents’ house and dug out that very copy, and started to read. I was hooked. Fantasy reading had never really appealed to me. Like Sci-Fi, I had relegated Fantasy to the realm of geeks and nerds – an opinion I am ashamed of to the day. My opinion changed that morning when I was submerged into that hole where the Hobbit lived, with his pipe and hairy feet.
I never imagined an imagination could create a world that could be packaged into a few hundred pages and transported to another imagination. I didn’t think it possible to read someone else’s mind – at least that’s what I thought I was doing initially. A few chapters in and I realised fiction held a much more valuable gem; the ability to give a reader a few pointers and for that reader then to fill in the blanks. I was totally immersed in Tolkien’s world of mountains, forests, trolls and elves. I’ve never been able to put a finger on how imagination is manifested, I guess that’s part of the paradox; imagination, once realised ceases to be imagination. Either way, I was there, I was in middle earth, and I was glad (except the hairy feet – I just didn’t like that). In some respects, one’s relationship with characters in a book, their qualities and faults, the experiences and tribulations become part of one’s own experience in a detached way, much like a tattoo. You share their vices and fears, when they fall, you fall, when they get lucky, you get lucky. Anyway, back to the book!
Everything about this book was flawless, characters were loveable, greedy, irritating, evil, grumpy, crabby and neurotic, like a 20th century Snow White. The landscapes, as I’ve mentioned already, were engulfing. The level of detail appealed to every sense, the sheer difference in scale between middle earth and everyday earth, was like the difference between Yosemite and Sherwood Forest! This book introduced me to the concept of the quest, the spine of any fantasy novel, so many interesting events and meetings, though a little linear, still utterly captivating. And of course, that ring, the harbinger of novels to come, and worlds in the oven of Tolkien’s mind.
