Feanor fever

I realised last night whilst having dinner in Finsbury Park that I have become a Tolkien anorak.

I think I spent most of my teens careening perilously close to that particular precipice, not mention any number of other fashion faux-pas fissures. But now my late twenties have arrived (despite my blog profile refusing to accept me increasing my age!) I feel I have tumbled into the terrible trough of obsession.

I'm reading Lost Tales 1 which is a real test of my theory. The book is an exploration of JRR's earliest writings about Middle Earth and the Elves and Valar. He definitely improved on them, that's all I'll say.

But I finally noticed that I was basically applying textual criticism and pretty thorough continuity analysis to a whole career of creative writing. And shaking my head when I read analysis that I disagreed with. So it's almost like my degree.

Which can't be quite right.

But the more I read (apart from the three almost identical versions of a very dull 'Elven' poem in Lost Tales, makes me more interested. Not less.

Is there a way back? Can I reach my own blessed land where my troubles and thoughts will be eased away by the divine beauty of it all?

I think I can guess the answer.