Lord of Discord

Your Wag Long Read: At 130, J.R.R. Tolkien Still Stirs Things Up

Meet Your Myth Maker: J.R.R. Tolkien in 1967 (Edward Wilden/AP).

At 10, I was lured into a life of crime by a book. The volume in question was an oversized copy of The Hobbit, illustrated with stills from an animated Rankin-Bass TV special based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s novel. It cost more than my allowance, but I had to possess it. I wasn’t aware that the author’s son Christopher had condemned the cartoon as execrable (not that I knew what it meant). Like a lot of ethereal souls pinned down by reality, I just wanted my piece of Middle Earth.

I was collared slinking out of the shop, loot jutting from under my sweatshirt as if I’d swallowed a bulky rectangle whole. Luckily, the apprehending clerk was a soft touch in John Lennon spectacles, and I was cut loose with a talking-to. Let this youthful misadventure illustrate the risks in theft and narrative. Storytelling is a beguiling human gift, but it induces misbehavior.