The Children of Hurin

Let’s begin with my relationship with Mr. Tolkien’s work.  When I went overseas a long time ago, I brought the Lord of the Rings trilogy with me.  I survived, it didn’t.  By the time I returned, the pages had been taped together so many times, the yellowing cellophane tape crumbled in the tropical climate. 

At the airport on my return I was greeted with hugs and the gift of a red leather-bound edition of the trilogy and later a green leather-bound copy of The Hobbit.

I have a copy of Farmer Giles of Ham, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, Smith of Wooton Major and The Lost Road.

The Silmarillion is well read and annotated by me and friends.

So, at the very least, we can say I am a fan and have been one for over three decades.

Now… The Children of Hurin. 

I read it cover to cover filled with dread at every page.  Christopher Tolkien’s stiff writing style is more evident in this volume then any of the others.  That and the story is SO DISMAL.

Unless you feel a need for more stories from Middle Earth, please don’t read this.  If you are in any way leaning toward depression, don’t read this.

If you are, like me a fan of the old man himself, buy it, put it on the shelf right next to the Lost Road (and other writings) and never open it.  If you do read it I recommend reading The Adventures of Tom Bombadil and wander by the Withywindle River as an antidote to the black cloud of doom that will have enveloped the core of your very being.


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