There once was a great war, and ere its end did many meet Death before their time. But the war ended, as such things must, and the great armies disbanded and the soldiers left the blood-soaked fields of battle and they returned to their homes. Three such soldiers travelled a long road together, for they hailed from the same small distant town, and so for many days did they journey in the company of each other. Yet through an ill chance, though they had long avoided the spectre of death through all that terrible war, Death nevertheless met them on…
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Every year, I like to write a little postscript to my September Series posts — something that, while it might be congruent with them in some way, is nonetheless a digression. This year, given that the Series has been comprised entirely of creative works by me, I wanted to do something a little different, and something a little self-indulgent — I wanted to write up a few comments on each piece, to explain something of their origins and what I was interested in working with. This is, of course, a wholly unnecessary exercise in many ways. Ideally, each piece should…
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There was once a young woman who lived with her mother in a cottage at the edge of night and the beginning of the sunrise; and the trees all about were dark and silent. Yet they were happy together, for the mother loved her daughter, and the daughter was full-glad in her mother’s company. And the daughter was merry and beautiful and gentle, as kindly as the day and as fair as the fields of flowers that she took delight in. Verily would she have been loved by many, but this was not so. For the mother was wise in…
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A businessman, on his way to an important conference, checks into his hotel. The businessman is rude, brusque, demanding. Ungracious and ungrateful, he is ready to make all sorts of imposing and unreasonable demands upon the cozy hotel’s staff. But today, he has met his match. Over the next half hour, the businessman will be subjected to a wide range of increasingly bizarre indignities, as the hotel staff leer at him through his window. “Nice legs” one of them coos at him as he hurries away. Another lurks for him in his room, hidden behind a corner until the businessman…
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For the last post in this year’s September Series, it only seems natural to discuss the last work Tolkien published in his life, and the last of the tenuously-connected ‘Lesser Tales’ – Smith of Wootton Major. And discuss it we will – in a manner of speaking. Because this choice of mine to write about Smith is, alas, also a critical error of judgement on my part. Smith might be my favourite thing Tolkien ever wrote. Ever. There’s nothing like the richness of The Lord of the Rings, and On Fairy Stories might have had a more profound influence on…
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