Ethan and I were wandering through Pioneer Book on Center Street a few weeks ago, and I stumbled upon an old Lord of the Rings set from the sixties – the same kind of set my dad read when he was a young lad. It wasn’t still in the box or anything, but it was the first time we’d seen all four books, all the same style, all for under a total of forty dollars. We quickly yanked them off the shelf and toward the cash register, and about fifteen dollars later, we were quite proud of our accomplishments.
Now, I’ve been using The Hobbit as a motivation to clean off my “currently reading” shelf for the last few weeks. And by that I mean that there were two specific books I was “supposed” to finish before I started a new one.
“Aw, whatever,” I finally said. And I read The Hobbit. And I regretted nothing. As always, Tolkien’s narration style is just delightful, and makes me want to go on an adventure – as long as I’m allowed to bring my eggs and bacon. And poor Bilbo went through so many adventures. Elves. Spiders. Goblins. A humongous dragon. It’s a good, and a fairly quick, read.
“A rollicking adventure!”
“Fun for the whole family!”
Well, you heard the critics. (ahem.) Now get to reading. ♦