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I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.

J. R. R. Tolkien

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J. R. R. Tolkien
Age: 81 †
Born: 1892
Born: January 3
Died: 1973
Died: September 2
Author
Essayist
Historian
Illustrator
Linguist
Literary Critic
Military Officer
Poet
Teacher
Translator
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
John R. R. Tolkien
J-R-R Tolkien
Tolkien
J.R.R. Tolkien
J. R. R. Tolkien
Butter
Feels
Fellowship
Much
Like
Thin
Rings
Aging
Bread
Scraped
Sort
Stretched
Feel

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Have you thought of an ending?' 'Yes , several, and all are dark and unpleasant,' said Frodo. 'Oh , that won't do!' said Bilbo. 'Books ought to have good endings. How would this do: and they all settled down and lived together happily ever after?' 'It will do well, if it ever comes to that,' said Frodo.
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Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on on the story.
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Fire, fear, foes! Awake!
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Farewell! wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey’s end!
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All that is gold does not glitter.
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After some while Bilbo became impatient. Well, what is it? he said. The answer's not a kettle boiling over, as you seem to think by the noise you are making.
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Adventures are not all pony-rides in May-sunshine.
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If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.
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But Sam turned to Bywater, and so came back up the Hill, as day was ending once more. And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. And Rose drew him in, and set him in his chair, and put little Elanor upon his lap. He drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m back,’ he said
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What does your heart tell you?
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He knew that all the hazards and perils were now drawing together to a point: the next day would be a day of doom, the day of final effort or disaster, the last gasp.
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Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed their gray coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks.
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Farewell, they cried, Wherever you fare till your eyries receive you at the journey's end! That is the polite thing to say among eagles. May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks, answered Gandalf, who knew the correct reply.
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Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it forever!
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O Elbereth! Gilthoniel! We still remember, we who dwell In this far land beneath the trees. Thy starlight on the Western Seas.
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Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.
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True education is a kind of never ending story — a matter of continual beginnings, of habitual fresh starts, of persistent newness.
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Rover did not know in the least where the moon's path led to, and at present he was much too frightened and excited to ask, and anyway he was beginning to get used to extraordinary things happening to him.
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Arrow! Black arrow! I have saved you to the last. You have never failed me and I have always recovered you. I had you from my father and he from of old. If ever you came from the forges of the true king under the Mountain, go now and speed well!
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Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn!
J. R. R. Tolkien