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J. R. R. Tolkien, fully John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
I don?t like anything here at all. said Frodo, step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid. Yes, that?s so, said Sam, And we shouldn?t be here at all, if we?d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it?s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo, adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that?s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn?t. And if they had, we shouldn?t know, because they?d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on, and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same; like old Mr Bilbo. But those aren?t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we?ve fallen into? I wonder, said Frodo, But I don?t know. And that?s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you?re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don?t know. And you don?t want them to.
J. R. R. Tolkien, fully John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
Far over the misty mountains cold to dungeons deep and caverns old we must away ere break of day to seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, while hammers fell like ringing bells in places deep, where dark things sleep, in hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord there many a gleaming golden hoard they shaped and wrought, and light they caught to hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung the flowering stars, on crowns they hung the dragon-fire, in twisted wire they meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold to dungeons deep and caverns old we must away, ere break of day, to claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves and harps of gold; where no man delves there lay they long, and many a song was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, the wind was moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; the trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the dale and men looked up with faces pale; the dragon's ire more fierce than fire laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; the dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim to dungeons deep and caverns dim we must away, ere break of day, to win our harps and gold from him!
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J. R. R. Tolkien, fully John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger; someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them...
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