a bit more tolkien to start the year
Jan. 1st, 2026 08:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jazzfishSilmarillion update: I used to have what turns out to be a first-US-edition Silmarillion (not first printing, not in great shape) that was Pop's. Emily had the same edition in better condition and less smoke-infested, so Pop's went before the crosscountry move fifteen years ago, and then Emily's obviously went with her. In conversation Steph determined the particular edition from my vague description ("white-ish dust jacket, big fold-out map of Beleriand glued to the endcover"), found a site with a few copies that were well within my budget, and then while I was dithering bought one for me. So that was a nice end to the year.
The last time I read LotR, some ten or twelve years ago, was the first time I'd read Pop's copies. Before that almost all my reads had been in increasingly-decrepit Ballantine paperbacks from the eighties, bright blue/green/red with Darrell K. Sweet covers. It turned out to be extremely distracting to have the familiar words in different places on the page. Apparently I imprinted hard.
My nice fancy new edition of The Hobbit has an extensive editor's note from Christopher Tolkien talking about the changes they've made to bring it in line with what can be deduced of JRRT's desires for a Preferred Text. Unfortunately this means it's missing Tolkien's second-edition note, the one that begins "In this edition several minor inaccuracies, most of them noted by readers, have been corrected." (AKA "the Watsonian explanation for why I had to retcon 'Riddles In The Dark' to bring it in line with Lord of the Rings.") It felt downright weird to read the book without that note. Thankfully I also have a paperback with the psychedelic pink fruits and emus (no lion, alas; must be a later edition), so I can read the introductory note as is Proper.
... it occurs to me that Pop's hardbacks lack the Peter Beagle essay/encomium that appeared as the front page of my Ballantine paperbacks, which also imprinted though I was far too young to understand it. Text follows, so that I'll have it.
It's been fifteen years at this writing since I first came across THE LORD OF THE RINGS in the stacks at the Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh. I'd been looking for the book for four years, ever since reading W. H. Auden's review in the New York Times. I think of that time now -- and the years after, when the trilogy continued to be hard to find and hard to explain to most friends -- with an undeniable nostalgia. It was a barren era for fantasy, among other things, but a good time for cherishing slighted treasures and mysterious passwords. Long before Frodo Lives! began to appear in the New York subways, J. R. R. Tolkien was the magus of my secret knowledge.
I've never thought it an accident that Tolkien's works waited more than ten years to explode into popularity almost overnight. The Sixties were no fouler a decade than the Fifties -- they merely reaped the Fifties' foul harvest -- but they were the years when millions of people grew aware that the industrial society had become paradoxically unlivable, incalculably immoral, and ultimately deadly. In terms of passwords, the Sixties were the time when the word progress lost its ancient holiness, and escape stopped being comically obscene. The impulse is being called reactionary now, but lovers of Middle-earth want to go there. I would myself, like a shot.
For in the end it is Middle-earth and its dwellers that we love, not Tolkien's considerable gifts in showing it to us. I said once that the world he charts was there long before him, and I still believe it. He is a great enough magician to tap our most common nightmares, daydreams and twilight fancies, but he never invented them either: he found them a place to live, a green alternative to each day's madness here in a poisoned world. We are raised to honor all the wrong explorers and discoverers -- thieves planting flags, murderers carrying crosses. Let us at last praise the colonizers of dreams.
-- Peter S. Beagle
Watsonville, California
14 July 1973
The last time I read LotR, some ten or twelve years ago, was the first time I'd read Pop's copies. Before that almost all my reads had been in increasingly-decrepit Ballantine paperbacks from the eighties, bright blue/green/red with Darrell K. Sweet covers. It turned out to be extremely distracting to have the familiar words in different places on the page. Apparently I imprinted hard.
My nice fancy new edition of The Hobbit has an extensive editor's note from Christopher Tolkien talking about the changes they've made to bring it in line with what can be deduced of JRRT's desires for a Preferred Text. Unfortunately this means it's missing Tolkien's second-edition note, the one that begins "In this edition several minor inaccuracies, most of them noted by readers, have been corrected." (AKA "the Watsonian explanation for why I had to retcon 'Riddles In The Dark' to bring it in line with Lord of the Rings.") It felt downright weird to read the book without that note. Thankfully I also have a paperback with the psychedelic pink fruits and emus (no lion, alas; must be a later edition), so I can read the introductory note as is Proper.
... it occurs to me that Pop's hardbacks lack the Peter Beagle essay/encomium that appeared as the front page of my Ballantine paperbacks, which also imprinted though I was far too young to understand it. Text follows, so that I'll have it.
It's been fifteen years at this writing since I first came across THE LORD OF THE RINGS in the stacks at the Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh. I'd been looking for the book for four years, ever since reading W. H. Auden's review in the New York Times. I think of that time now -- and the years after, when the trilogy continued to be hard to find and hard to explain to most friends -- with an undeniable nostalgia. It was a barren era for fantasy, among other things, but a good time for cherishing slighted treasures and mysterious passwords. Long before Frodo Lives! began to appear in the New York subways, J. R. R. Tolkien was the magus of my secret knowledge.
I've never thought it an accident that Tolkien's works waited more than ten years to explode into popularity almost overnight. The Sixties were no fouler a decade than the Fifties -- they merely reaped the Fifties' foul harvest -- but they were the years when millions of people grew aware that the industrial society had become paradoxically unlivable, incalculably immoral, and ultimately deadly. In terms of passwords, the Sixties were the time when the word progress lost its ancient holiness, and escape stopped being comically obscene. The impulse is being called reactionary now, but lovers of Middle-earth want to go there. I would myself, like a shot.
For in the end it is Middle-earth and its dwellers that we love, not Tolkien's considerable gifts in showing it to us. I said once that the world he charts was there long before him, and I still believe it. He is a great enough magician to tap our most common nightmares, daydreams and twilight fancies, but he never invented them either: he found them a place to live, a green alternative to each day's madness here in a poisoned world. We are raised to honor all the wrong explorers and discoverers -- thieves planting flags, murderers carrying crosses. Let us at last praise the colonizers of dreams.
-- Peter S. Beagle
Watsonville, California
14 July 1973
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