Biography Tolkien Book

Tolkien, as well as on the memoirs of his relatives and friends. Tolkien himself did not really approve of biography. More precisely, he did not like when the biography was turned into a variety of literary research. However, he could not help but realize that since his works are so colossal popularity, the probability of writing a biography after his death is very great. And, it seems, Tolkien gradually collected materials for this future biography: in the last years of his life, he supplied many old letters and other papers with explanations and comments.

In addition, he wrote several pages of memories of his childhood. So there is a hope that he would still not categorically against the release of this book. For my part, I tried to just tell about Tolkien’s life, not trying to discuss his literary works. I adhered to this approach partly out of respect for the views of Tolkien himself, but also because the first light biography of the writer seems to me not the most suitable place to criticize his books.

In the end, such judgments often speak not so much about their subject as about criticism itself. Nevertheless, I nevertheless tried to outline some literary and other impressions that could not help but influence Tolkien’s work, in the hope that this would shed a new light on his books. I left the Oxford Center, through the Magdalene bridge, along the London highway, climbed a hill - and found myself in a respectable but dull suburb of Hedington.

At a large women's private school, I turn the left, on Sandfield Road, a street built up with two-story brick cottages, before each of which a neat palisad is broken. House number seventy -six is ​​located quite far. The walls of the house are whitened, and it is almost not visible from the street: it is obscured by a high fence, a green hedge and overgrown trees.

I put the car by the roadside, open the gate with Arochka, and the short path that goes between the pink bushes leads me to the door. I'm calling. Silence has been standing for a long time - only a distant noise of cars on the highway is heard. I'm already starting to pretend, call again or leave when the door opens. I am met by Professor Tolkien. He is lower than I thought.

In his books, he attaches great importance to high growth, and now I am slightly surprised, having discovered that he himself - even below the average, is not much, but enough to make it noticeable. I imagine. It was agreed on my visit in advance, they were waiting for me, and therefore a questioning and slightly wary look that I was met, is replaced by a smile. They hold out my hand and greeted with a strong handshake.

Behind the owner you can see the hallway - small, clean, exactly what you expect to see in the house of an elderly marital couple belonging to the middle class. Oden rashly called this house “nightmare” - his remark was then quoted in the newspapers; “But it's nonsense.” Ordinary suburban cottage. Mrs. Tolkien appears briefly, to greet me. She is lower than her husband, a neat elderly lady with smoothly combed gray hair and dark eyebrows.

We exchange courtesies, and then the professor goes outside and leads me to his “cabinet”, located next to the house. The office is nothing more than a garage. However, there is no mention of cars here - the owner explains that he does not hold cars since the beginning of World War II, and when he retired, he converted the garage to the office and transferred his books and papers, which were previously stored in his office in the college.

The regiments are scored by dictionaries, books in etymology, philology and texts of texts in many languages ​​- most ancient English, Central English and Old Issenant, but several shelves are forced by the translations of the “Lord of the Rings”: Polish, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Japanese; And to the windowsill of the buttons, the map of the Middle -earth invented by him.

On the floor there is an old-thorough suitcase stuffed with letters, on the table-inkwells, metal feathers, feathers-pens and two writing machines. It smells of books and tobacco smoke. It is not particularly comfortable here. The professor apologizes that he accepts me here, and explains that in the room that serves his cabinet and bedroom, where he mainly works, too tightly.

However, he says, all the same, it is all temporary - Tolkien hopes that he will soon be able to complete at least the main part of the great work promised to publishers, and then Mrs. Tolkien and Mrs. Tolkien will be able to afford to move to the house more and more pleasant, away from quoted visitors ... Here he is somewhat embarrassed. I make my way past the electric fireplace and, at the invitation of the owner, sit in the old chair.

He takes the pipe from the pocket of the tweed jacket and begins to explain why he can give me no more than a few minutes. In another corner of the room, a brilliant blue alarm clock is loudly ticking, as if emphasizing that time is expensive.Tolkien reports that he needs to eliminate the egregious contradiction in one place from the “Lord of the Rings”, which one of the readers indicated in the letter, is urgent, because the corrected edition is about to go to the seal.

He explains all this in great detail and speaks of his book as if this is not his own composition, but a chronicle of real events; It seems that he perceives himself not as an author who made an insignificant mistake, which must either be eliminated or somehow explained, but as a historian who has to shed light in a dark place in a historical document. It seems that he thinks that I know the book as good as he is.

This is somewhat out of rut. No, of course, I read it, and even several times - but the professor talks about the details about which I have no idea, or at least very vague. I am afraid that he is about to ask me some tricky question that will reveal the whole depth of my ignorance. And the question is really asked - but, fortunately, it is purely rhetorical, and clearly does not require anything but confirmation.

I'm still nervous. What if others, much more complicated, will follow this issue? My nervousness is even more intensified by the fact that I do not understand everything from the professor said. His voice is strange: low, deaf; The pronunciation is purely English, but with some strange shade, and with which it is difficult to say. It seems that this person belongs to a different century or other culture.

However, most of the time the professor speaks quite slurly. He gets excited, blurts out the words with volleys. Entire phrases are eaten, clumped, lost in a hurry. From time to time, the owner fits his lips with his hand, which is why his speech becomes even less legible. It is explained by long complex sentences, almost not stabbing - but suddenly stops. A long pause follows.

Apparently, they expect an answer from me. The answer to what? If the question was raised here, I did not hear him ... Suddenly, the professor again begins to reason and without finishing the previous sentence. He completes his speech with Paphos. In the last words, he sticks a pipe in his mouth, agrees through his gritted teeth and, putting a point, struck a match. I am feverishly trying to come up with what to say so smart.

But the professor again begins to speak before I manage to find a suitable answer. According to some subtle, one understanding association, he begins to discuss a remark in some newspaper that angered him.

Here I finally see the opportunity to participate in the conversation and insert something that, as I hope, sounds smart enough. The professor listens to me with polite interest and answers very extensive, picking up my statement is actually quite trivial and developing it, so in the end it begins to seem to me that I really said something worthwhile. Then he again jumps on some new topic, and I am lost again.

I can only assent here and there; However, it occurred to me that, perhaps, they value me not only as an interlocutor, but also as a listener. During the conversation, he continuously moves, paces back and forth along the dark room with energy, looking like restlessness. He gestures with a tube, pierces it on the edge of the ashtray, stuffs it again, struck a match, smokes, but makes no more than a few puffs.

He has small, neat, wrinkled hands, on the middle finger of his left hand - a simple engagement ring. The clothes are a little dented, but sits on it well. He is the seventy -sixth year, but under the buttons of a bright vest is just a hint of an abdomen. I almost all the time, not looking up, look into his eyes. At times, the professor absentmindedly looks around the room or looks out the window, but every now and then turns to me-it squints in my direction, then, saying something important, yells at me with a look.

Around the eyes - wrinkles and folds of skin, which are constantly moving, emphasizing any mood change. The stream of words ruffs for a while - the professor again smokes the phone. I am giving up the moment and finally report why I came - although now the purpose of my visit seems to be already unimportant. However, Tolkien reacts with great enthusiasm and listens carefully to me.

Having completed this part of the conversation, I rise to leave - but, obviously, the owner does not expect that I will whot right now, because he began to speak again. He again discusses his own mythology. His gaze is fascinated somewhere into the distance. It seems that the owner completely forgot about my presence - he put the phone into his mouth and speaks through his teeth, not letting go of the mouthpiece.

It occurred to me that from the side of Tolkien - the spilled Oxford "Don", the distracted professor, which they are portrayed in comedies. But in fact, he is not at all like that! Rather, it seems that a certain unknown spirit has pretended to be an elderly Oxford professor. The body can walk through a cramped room in the suburbs of Oxford, but the thought is far from here, wanders along the plains and mountains of Middle -earth.

And then the conversation ends.I am released from the garage and solemnly escorted to the gate opposite the front door, explaining that I have to keep the gate locked on the barn lock so that the fans who came to watch football at the local stadium do not put the cars on the path leading to the house. To my considerable surprise, they invite me to go more. Not now: they both since Mrs.

Tolkien, and besides, they leave to rest in Bournemut, and work is standing, for several years now, and a bunch of letters that need to be answered ... "But you still go! On the aft deck of the steamer stood and waved the relatives who escorted her, again to see which she did not soon see, a fragile, pretty girl of twenty -one years old. It was a turning point in her life, no matter what side.

Behind was Birmingham, fogs, family tea drinks. Ahead was awaiting an unknown country, an ever -scorching sun and a marriage with a man who was thirteen years older than her.