The stuff of greatness

by Rick Johansen

My partner of 25 years and I agree on very little. We usually agree on, or compromise on, holiday destinations, we have found a furtive middle ground when it comes to TV but on so many other things, we are poles apart. Which may be why we are still together, and still crazy, after all these years. Food, culture, music, theatre and so much more we could not be any less alike. There is no better example of this than our reading habits. Never the twain shall meet.

I am almost entirely a non-fiction reader. Real-life stories, biographies; that kind of thing. Very rarely fiction, which is probably down to my lack of imagination, my inability to believe something that’s entirely made up. For someone who was brought up watching professional wrestling, that is, I accept, a little odd. By contrast, my partner reads little but fiction. I suppose it takes all sorts. What brought this to my attention was that yesterday was J. R. R. Tolkien’s 133rd birthday.

I read his book The Hobbit as part of my English Literature learning in secondary school. I didn’t get on with it, although that is definitely not a criticism of Tolkien. English Literature learning, at least for me, took all the joy out of reading, being forced to read, and worse than that, dissect someone’s story. I may have come to love it had I been able to embrace it on my own terms. Having said that, it is clear to me, a Philistine in so many artforms, that he was a genius.

I write insane amounts of blogs, essays and book preparation, but none of it, I hope, is fiction. It’s a talent that I just don’t have. I have the odd idea, but putting it down to paper, or Word as we call it these days, is way beyond my limitations.

Tolkien made up not just characters, but whole worlds. Wizards, dwarves, trolls, goblins and giant spiders who can speak, in places like Rivendell and the Misty Mountains, which I only came to know about in the music of Rush and Led Zeppelin. Since The Hobbit was published in 1937, it has sold over 100 million copies and has never been out of print. That, and his other works, like Lord Of The Rings, are not just books: they are the stuff of greatness, stories that have gripped the imagination of people like perhaps no other.

That it is otherworldly probably explains the longevity of Tolkien’s work. It is not hamstrung by the changing times, it takes new readers to an exciting mythological place, holding their attention sometimes for life. Only great writers can do that. Tolkien, whose work I have not read for perhaps half a century, must be among the greatest, or perhaps is the greatest, of all time.

My lack of imagination is my loss. To those who love Tolkien, please join me in celebrating his life. In a world where, it seems, mediocrity is king, great writing remains something to cherish. Even though reading it is something my far more intelligent partner does, not me.

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