Many many years ago, long before I'd discovered my frills - before I'd even begun to master the art of reading - I curled up on the couch with my dad and the book he'd brought me. The story was one of a kind, somewhat funny, little man that went on a great journey filled with many adventures and one really impressive dragon. It took a great many nights to work through the story just a few pages at a time. Each night my love of the words grew. Each night I loved the world Bilbo wandered through more. Parts were a bit terrifying. But then, real adventures really should be, shouldn't they?
Those nights began my love of fantasy and of reading. Tolkien holds a very special place in my heart. Through high school I obsessed over his stories. While I adore Lord of the Rings and the epic language and tales of that masterpiece, it's The Hobbit that is my comfort story. Though I've not read it through since starting college, the battered green book with its dust jacket long since disappeared and the water stain and the hand written note from my dad has followed me where ever I went. It's a quiet friend waiting patiently for me to turn around and rediscover its magic. And really, how can one not greet Gandalf as a grumpy but loving grandfather?
Hands down my favorite character. Also, owner of the world's most epic hat.
This re-read is slow, but winding around the celebrations of family seems to be right for such a personal tale - adding in more sweet memories and feelings to recall as I crack the cover. Unfortunately, I can't exactly give a flat review for this one. But a book that has so influenced the genre and is already so well known and well loved isn't one that truly needs a straight review. Rather, I hope that this love can simply be shared with others.
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