January 3, 1892: J.R.R. Tolkien is born. 

Nothing has astonished me more (and I think my publishers) than the welcome given to The Lord of the Rings. But it is, of course, a constant source of consolation and pleasure to me. And, I may say, a piece of singular good fortune, much envied by some of my contemporaries. Wonderful people still buy the book, and to a man ‘retired’ that is both grateful and comforting.

All that is gold does not glitter; not all those who wander are lost.

I do not love the bright sword for it’s sharpness, nor the arrow for it’s swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.

I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.

Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death in the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends.

It’s a dangerous business, going out your front door.

 End? No, it doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one which we must all take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all change to silver glass… And then you see it… White shores, and beyond, a far green country, under a swift sunrise.

THEY’RE TAKING THE HOBBITS TO ISENGARD!

No, no, the last one was a joke. Anyway, happy 120th birthday to the great J.R.R. Tolkien, who is, in many ways, the father of modern fantasy. Now, let us nibble our Lembas and wait patiently for The Hobbit to be released, which I know feels impossible.