Do Not Lie To The Scholar.

The Lord Of The Rings' Is Fundamentally An Infantile Work. Tolkien Is Not Interested In The Way Grownup, Adult Human Beings Interact With Each Other. He's Interested In Maps And Plans And Languages And Codes.

On A Cold, Fretful Afternoon In Early October, 1872, A Hansom Cab Drew Up Outside The Offices Of Lockhart And Selby, Shipping Agents, In The Financial Heart Of London, And A Young Girl Got Out And Paid The Driver. She Was A Person Of Sixteen Or So--alone, And Uncommonly Pretty. She Was Slender And Pale, And Dressed In Mourning, With A Black Bonnet Under Which She Tucked Back A Straying Twist Of Blond Hair That The Wind Had Teased Loose. She Had Unusually Dark Brown Eyes For One So Fair. Her Name Was Sally Lockhart; And Within Fifteen Minutes, She Was Going To Kill A Man.

You'll Drift Apart, It's True, But You'll Be Out In The Open, Part Of Everything Alive Again.

Even If It Means Oblivion, Friends, I'll Welcome It, Because It Won't Be Nothing. We'll Be Alive Again In A Thousand Blades Of Grass, And A Million Leaves; We'll Be Falling In The Raindrops And Blowing In The Fresh Breeze; We'll Be Glittering In The Dew Under The Stars And The Moon Out There In The Physical World, Which Is Our True Home And Always Was.

I Will Love You For Ever, Whatever Happens. Till I Die And After I Die, And When I Find My Way Out Of The Land Of The Dead I'll Drift About Forever, All My Atoms, Till I Find You Again.