I’ve just finished reading “The Hobbit”. Although I suppose I should say I’ve just finished re-reading it. But seeing that the first time around was back in the fifth or sixth form, I can forgive myself for not remembering anything about it. That was in the days before awareness honed my senses, which were then driven like a wedge between me and my peers. I accept no responsibility for anything which happened before that occasion. Ever since, though, I’ve carried the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Although I don’t remember anything about the text of The Hobbit from that first reading, one thing does remain in my brain. When I attended school, which was during the Golden Age of British Education, it was still OK to accompany an essay on any given subject with a drawing. Well, I have a clear idea of the picture I made. It might have been a rather meagre representation of “Mr Bilbo Baggins”, as Tolkien is a little too wont to call him if you ask me, making his way through Mirkwood. But the thing that made the picture stand out was the veritable blizzard of runes which accompanied the hobbit’s progress. There were all these letters from a forgotten past swirling and whirling and flying everywhere. Some were real, some imaginary, but all made up a storm of the utmost lexicality.
So you see, the written word is something which has fascinated me for the longest time.