Reflection on the Hobbit

 I remember the first time I got the Hobbit out of the library. I can still smell the cheap paperback and feel the mystery and delight of a new book as I looked long and hard at that green cover. There was something magical about that paperback. It had until recently been forbidden. I gazed with relish at the picture of Gandalf striding up to Bilbo's door. (Aside, that picture is one of the only accurate Tolkien pictures I have seen in my day. Kudos to Ballantine books or whatever company publishes that edition.) And then I read. I was amused by the book at first, then heartily interested, and finally fully in.

Three years later, I have read the Lord of the Rings, parts of the Silmarillion, and every article on Lord of the Rings or Tolkien that I can find. I've watched the extended LOTR movies, and I can recite the names of all the actors who played the Fellowship of the Ring in order.

However, I find that the most amazing thing about those books is that they took me on a journey. I went from a skeptic to a committed lover of Tolkienish lore. The books did to me what they did to Bilbo Baggins years ago. They changed my life and left me different.

You know, it's a dangerous thing to go out your front door, but it is an equally dangerous thing to open a good book.