Of Middle Earth and Elven Cloaks...

The theme of today’s post is in honour of one of the greatest men to have ever graced this planet, JRR Tolkien. He was without a doubt the author of my childhood. He was a co-conspirator in my lengthy battles with the Hounds of Sauron orchestrated from bottom of my garden, he was the reason I wrote my diary in runes for a year (although I also wrote in mirror writing for a while because I fancied myself a Da Vinci scholar) and the reason rather a lot of homework went unfinished as I wiled away the afternoons with my nose in a book.

  

JRR Tolkien

One such occasion ended with the family dog and I holed up in our attic inside a “fort” (I use the term loosely) constructed primarily of discarded removal boxes. I managed to terrify myself (and the dog, let it be known) so entirely that when I eventually copped onto myself, I still had to scream for my mother to come and rescue us from the baying wolves that had surrounded us as we were sheltering from the blizzard (Yes, blizzard – growing up in sunny South Africa I considered snow very glamorous), because I still wasn’t wholly convinced it wasn’t real. I was six at the time and the experience has never left me, such was the sheer horror I created for myself.

I blame Tolkien. His stories awakened my sense of unreality and imagination and pushed the boundaries from already flimsy at best (clearly) to non-existent. Thanks to him I had a charming childhood. I agree most of it was inside my own head but it really could have been worse. The man lived for 81 years and in those years he created an entire world, complete with diverse histories, hierarchies, languages and much rich poetry. I used to think he must have had access to an alternate dimension because I struggled to believe that his writing was solely a product of his imagination as opposed to sheer reporting. Anyone can write what they know, but to create – that is true genius.

What I love about his stories is that I read them when I was a child and loved them, and I read them now and I still love them, and for the very same reasons. They are timeless classics that our grandchildren’s children will still enjoy. This is because they aren’t based in our reality or conform to our paradigms and they never go out of fashion because they aren’t based on popular culture. A further marvel of this set of literature is that they are conducive to being re-read a thousand times because the storylines are so intricate and the divergence of tales keeps your mind reeling each time no matter how familiar the words.

So, to you JRR, thank you for your contribution to literary history and especially thank you for your unknown contribution to a little girl who didn’t know orcs weren’t real...