Scan barcode
A review by nigellicus
The Art of The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien by Wayne G. Hammond, J.R.R. Tolkien, Christina Scull
5.0
So, a book I used to reread quite a lot, not because I was obsessive about it, but because it was one of a small group of books that so far as I could tell were better than anything else I could get my hands on, but which I haven't opened in, God, how long? Twenty years? I always figured that at the most I had one more good read of it in me, and that read would be at best an exercise in nostalgia, at worst an awful let down, and then I would never read it again. But you know what? It's a classic for a reason, and that reason is: it's just so damn good.
From the warm cosy opening to the arrival of thirteen dwarves and a wizard, to the long, often uncomfortable journey during which they are frequently captured, wet, hungry and sometimes all three, and during which they rarely if ever, display much in the way of competence or even heroism, Gandalf excepted, naturally. For all that, they're a lovable bunch, and Bilbo himself is a character of rare and sensible charm, profoundly lovable, in fact, and no better a person through which to experience all the joys and terrors of the unexpected journey.
So I think I shall be revisiting The Hobbit more frequently in the future, and cracking open the old volumes of The Lord Of The Rings, battered and torn and stained and sellotaped together in the next week or two. I'm already looking forward to it.
Anyway, I just reread it again, because we're going to the film tomorrow. The film will be the film, for better or worse, but the book will always be the book, and I'll be grateful to the film for prompting me to revisit the book and rediscovering it. I reckon I'm Bilbo-aged now, plump and middle-aged and settled. I can't deny the appeal of something that suggests there might still be adventures in store and a chance for me to prove my worth, and perhaps that's the appeal of this, one of the best of all children's books, for adults.
From the warm cosy opening to the arrival of thirteen dwarves and a wizard, to the long, often uncomfortable journey during which they are frequently captured, wet, hungry and sometimes all three, and during which they rarely if ever, display much in the way of competence or even heroism, Gandalf excepted, naturally. For all that, they're a lovable bunch, and Bilbo himself is a character of rare and sensible charm, profoundly lovable, in fact, and no better a person through which to experience all the joys and terrors of the unexpected journey.
So I think I shall be revisiting The Hobbit more frequently in the future, and cracking open the old volumes of The Lord Of The Rings, battered and torn and stained and sellotaped together in the next week or two. I'm already looking forward to it.
Anyway, I just reread it again, because we're going to the film tomorrow. The film will be the film, for better or worse, but the book will always be the book, and I'll be grateful to the film for prompting me to revisit the book and rediscovering it. I reckon I'm Bilbo-aged now, plump and middle-aged and settled. I can't deny the appeal of something that suggests there might still be adventures in store and a chance for me to prove my worth, and perhaps that's the appeal of this, one of the best of all children's books, for adults.