The Silmarillion

J.R.R. Tolkien

In the sixties, something changed. Perhaps Mother Church realized that people were turning away from her; perhaps a cadre of teachers decided the younger generation needed to get in touch with its cultural roots; whatever. We ended up with a course in either the religion. literature, or both departments at many universities: The Bible As Literature. Seems they decided that the definitioni of "literature" (as it all too often is) is "something that's very difficult to read, but should be read by school students because someone, somewhere, has deemed it of great importance." (And thus Charles Dickens continues to be foisted on high school students everywhere.) And under this definition, the Bible-- which most certainly is difficult to read and is considered of great importance by tens of millions the world over, fits. Some would even attach a broader definition to it-- that it contains a bang-up plot, pretty good characterization, an elucidating theme, etc. Problem is, when it boils right down to the doup bone, the Bible is not all that well-written. Certainly, a number of other creation legends are entirely more readable and fun, despite having far fewer buckets of blood splashed across their pages.

Wandering into all this is a linguist who wants to create a creation myth for a world he's developed, a word loved by tens of millions the world over. He's already got the second half of the definition, so all he had to do was pen something difficult to read. And he did so, in spades. The Silmarillion is without a doubt, the thickest (language-wise), most obtuse, hardest-to-follow book I've attmpted since I gave up on nineteenth-century authors who were paid by the page for their stuff. I gave it the best shot I could, but it fell by the wayside.