A review by syliu
The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien by J.R.R. Tolkien

emotional funny informative inspiring reflective sad slow-paced

4.5

A sequel or successor to The Hobbit is called for. I promise to give this thought and attention. But I am sure you will sympathize when I say that the construction of elaborate and consistent mythology (and two languages) rather occupies the mind, and the Silmarils are in my heart.

An emotional roller coaster…reading this collection I’ve laughed, been awestruck and moved to tears. 

Tolkien’s ‘everyday’ writing is unsurprisingly beautiful. He pokes fun at research students and his own drawing ability and makes hilarious quips at Nazis. He writes clear and engaging passages on etymology and philological inspiration. He’s heart-warmingly sincere about his love for creation, nature, and his family; and one of the most humble people I feel I've ever come close to knowing.

This is an underrated read for those deep in Tolkien’s work — yes it’s valuable for Rings and Hobbit fans, but it reveals a deeper feeling for me as one most enamoured with the Silmarillion. 

It’s such a great shame Tolkien never published the Silmarillion in his lifetime — I would’ve loved to read letters addressing questions regarding the Greek tragedy of Fëanor and his sons, his thoughts about Sauron’s admiration of Tengwar or the Valar’s misdeeds. But if reading Tolkien has taught me anything it’s to be extremely grateful for what does exist. I just wish he could see the praise and love others feel for the work closest to his heart. 

 

I’m very glad I read this, and I do not rate it higher simply because it was great when it was good, but some inclusions felt irrelevant and unnecessarily prolonged. That said I’m sad there was an ending, and one so abrupt too. 

(Many quotes because deserved)

She was my Lúthien…But the story has gone crooked, and I am left, and I cannot plead before the inexorable Mandos... For ever we still met in the woodland glade, and went hand in hand many times to escape the shadow of imminent death before our last parting.

This empty year is fading into a dull grey mournful darkness: so slow-footed and yet so swift and evanescent. What of the new year and the spring? I wonder.