HOUR 1-2
Ugh, the prologue. Tolkien kicks off not with Bilbo’s firework-filled 111th birthday party, but with a history of Hobbits, which tells us more than we need to know and raises more questions than it answers. We learn Hobbits used to be taller in the olden days. Now, I know we’re not supposed to apply modern biology to old-school fantasy, but that’s a sign that a species is not getting enough nutrition, or there’s too much in-breeding. Poor Hobbitses.
Such meta thoughts swirl around my head unbidden. My brain is desperate to avoid the quest by going off on any tangent it can find. Unable to tweet, I find myself crafting a kind of mental Twitter feed. I see that Bilbo’s father was called Drogo, and I pause to wonder whether that name inspired George R.R. Martin.
It’s going to be a long day.
HOUR 2-3
Walking while reading is helping. Listening to the overly flute-filled soundtrack is not. It’s helping me waste time by mentally categorizing what parts of the book made it into the Jackson movies and which didn’t.
Example of the latter: Fatty Bolger, a kind of Fifth Beatle Hobbit who accompanies Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin out of the Shire and selflessly acts as a decoy. He is not to be confused with Fatty Lumpkin, a pony that shows up shortly thereafter. Was Tolkien trying to lose a few pounds when he wrote this, I wonder?
Another reason the soundtrack isn’t working is the sheer number of songs in the book. And with that we must welcome Tom Bombadil, magical folk-singing sprite in green stockings who is too weird for all the adaptations. Hello also to Tom’s wife Goldberry, literally the only woman with a speaking (or singing) role in the first third of Lord of the Rings — and a character sadly more forgotten than Tom.
I remember enjoying my first encounter with cheery old Tom at age 7; now he seems as creepy as a clown. His instruction that the Hobbits shed their clothes and run around naked doesn’t help.
Still, I’m not complaining about the proliferation of songs; every verse Tolkien writes means lots of lovely white space, which moves those pages faster than ever. (Sample lyrics: “Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties! Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.” Hashtag Bombadil banger.)
HOUR 4-5
Enter Strider. I remember my 7-year-old self stubbornly refusing to call him Aragorn, son of Arathorn (or any of the half-dozen titles Tolkien subsequently bestows on his favorite king-to-be). It’s good to see the Hobbits mostly keep calling him Strider too. Hobbits know what’s up.
At the Prancing Pony inn, the Hobbits “were suddenly aware of great hunger, for they had not eaten anything since breakfast.” Hey, me too! I prop the book by the toaster oven and make something approximating a lembas bread wrap.
A pit stop for the ponderous speeches at the Council of Elrond (which desperately needs a TL;DR), and the Fellowship is on its way. Sadly, Boromir never utters the words “one does not simply walk into Mordor” — that
immortal meme is a Peter Jackson invention. Instead, Elrond tells the Hobbits “you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead.”
I stare at the 731 remaining pages and feel called out.
HOUR 6-7
We reach the Mines of Moria faster than expected, and it’s more than a little weird how nobody even mentions Gandalf after he apparently dies fighting the Balrog. Gimli the dwarf seems intent on sightseeing instead. Luckily, Lady Galadriel shows up just in time to help these overly stoic dudes process their grief.
Reading fatigue is starting to set in, so I switch from physical book to iPad. I sample all available fonts, convinced that one will help me read faster. It works, sort of. I complete Fellowship of the Ring … some 2 hours behind schedule. I blame Aragorn, who is way more mansplain-y than I remember and has acquired about 17 names at this point.
Still, time for a well-deserved 10-minute break!
from News fore today http://bit.ly/2RK6xCR
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