I haven't read Lord Of The Rings since, oooh, College at least, long dim days lost in the mist of times, but once upon a time it was a veritable pillar of my life. I certainly wouldn't have survived my teenage years without it. When the films came out, of course, I thought about rereading them but somehow never got around to it. Here I am then, middle aged and pudgy as a hobbit with a family of my own, convinced that such adventures as I have had are all well behind me. My weary feet don't pursue the road very far and when my eyes turn to far-off hills, I wonder if I can get there by the motorway, and whether there's a cafe nearby. 
So why would I crack open those old worn and torn and sellotaped paperbacks Mum got for me when I was in hospital that year having my appendix out? (I distinctly remember the soldier with the helmet full of water washing Wormtongue's spit from the steps while I sat in the waiting room. Pardon me, but could you put the book down while we perform abdominal surgery on you? Thanks.) Why would you revisit that and remind yourself of all the things you lost and left behind, all the things you did wrong? 
Because in the end, that's what The Lord Of The Rings is about. Things lost and gone away and barely remembered. Suffused with the sadness of beautiful things passing; yet there is joy in the remembering, if you can bear it. Well, I can, and that's no bad thing.

Dec 2021 - Listened to the Rob Ingles audio version. Enchanting.

Dec 2023 - listened again