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For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.

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
Many
Different
Wood
Every
Woods
Things
Green
Never
Spring
Seen
Stills
Still

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Farewell! wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey’s end!
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Art is the human process that produces by the way (it is not its only or ultimate object) Secondary Belief.
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Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising I came singing into the sun, sword unsheathing. To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!
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Then Elrond and Galadriel rode on for the Third Age was over and the Days of the Rings were passed and an end was come of the story and song of those times.
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There are many things in the deep waters and seas and lands may change. And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of Men, or for a passing age of the world. We should seek a final end of this menace, even if we do not hope to make one.
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The treacherous are ever distrustful.
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Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not Today. Good morning! But please come to tea -any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Good bye!
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If you mean you think it is my job to go into the secret passage first, O Thorin Thrain’s son Oakenshield, may your beard grow ever longer,” he said crossly, “say so at once and have done!
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There was a willow hanging over the mill-pool and I learned to climb it. It belonged to a butcher on the Stratford Road, I think. One day they cut it down. They didn't do anything with it: the log just lay there. I never forgot that.
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There was a little corner of his mind that was still his own, and light came through it, as though a chink in the dark: light out of the past. It was actually pleasant, I think, to hear a kindly voice agin, bringing up memories of wind, and trees, and sun on the grass, and such forgotten things.
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For nothing is evil in the beginning.
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I was talking aloud to myself. A habit of the old: they choose the wisest person present to speak to
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For you do not yet know the strengths of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet on the road.
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The Resurrection was the greatest ‘eucatastrophe’ possible in the greatest Fairy Story — and produces that essential emotion: Christian joy which produces tears because it is qualitatively so like sorrow, because it comes from those places where Joy and Sorrow are at one, reconciled, as selfishness and altruism are lost in Love.
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The only just literary critic, he concluded, is Christ, who admires more than does any man the gifts He Himself has bestowed.
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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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Far, far below the deepest delvings of the dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things.
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As she stood before Aragorn she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled but as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and he knew that she trembled at the touch.
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grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps.
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It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.
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