a short essay on my love for lord of the rings

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have only very recently started to read J. R. R. Tolkien’s amazing work. First, I read “The Hobbit” and the beginning of the Lord of the Rings trilogy on an e-reader and thoroughly enjoyed the experience already. I could imagine sitting in Bilbo’s awfully comfortable chair when Gandalf suddenly knocked on the door and to then be pulled into this mystical, magical ancient world of middle earth, on the road that goes ever on and on.

But then, my parents gave me a magnificent Christmas gift, a red leather-bound edition of the Lord of The Rings with gilded pages and golden letters on the back cover. The package even included two poster-sized maps! Reading from this wonderful book truly is a pleasure. Whenever I turn a page, I can see its golden edge reflecting the light, reminding me of what a treasure I have in my hands. The book’s pages themselves are nicely formatted, with the book and chapter title written on the top of the left and the right page, respectively, in beautiful red letters.

In a weird form of nostalgia for a time that never was, I even felt sad when closing the book and realizing that I will never be able to see the wonders of which I had just read, of Lórien, the “fairest” Elven realm. And nevertheless, I found myself smiling and thanking Tolkien from my heart for guiding me through the world he created.