Tolkien

Every genre has greats, people who surpass their labels and become icons. JRR Tolkien is one of them; his Hobbit and Lord of the Rings series are great works that create an English-based medieval inspired mythology for ancient Albion. His language is very interesting and often intensely moving. He showcases a type of pre-modern poeticism that reaches out to our love of the past and our desire for a simpler, older lost world.

There's a sense of bronze age majesty and power. There are a million ways to look at him: in terms of sociology, languages and language creation, romance and love, friendship and loyalty, the burden of ruling, evil and danger, adventure and life's final stages. Be sure to check out all the famous illustrations of his work, from Tolkien's actual personal art to Ted Nasmith's famous pictures [of Luthien especially, the Nazgul and the black tower with the eye, and the Grey Havens]. There is also Alan Lee's work, the classic Greg & Tim Hildebrandt to the black and white lines of Frank Franzetta.

Many people know the famous poem he includes, it makes one think of Robert Frost in a way:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Here's an excerpt from the world of Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings:

Even as they spoke, they saw, as if she came in answer to their words, the Lady Galadriel approaching. Tall and white and fair she walked beneath the trees. She spoke no word, but beckoned to them

            Turning aside, she led them to the southern slopes of the hill of Cras Galadhon, and passing through a high green hedge they came into an enclosed garden. No trees grew there, and it lay open to the sky. The evening star had risen and was shining with white fire above the western woods. Down a long flight of steps the Lady went into the deep hollow, through which ran murmuring the silver stream that issued from the fountain on the hill. At the bottom, upon a low pedestal carved like a branching tree, stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and beside it stood a silver ewer.

            With water from the stream Galadriel filled the basin to the brim, and breathed on it, and when the water was still again she spoke. “Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,” she said. “I have brought you here so you may look in it, if you will.”

            The air was very still, and the dell was dark, and the Elf-lady beside him was tall and pale.