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Much as I enjoy his writing (I read The Lord of the Rings once a year), I've always assumed Tolkien was a bit of a stuffy wanker. But if he was (and I don't think that anymore), then his letters have convinced me that he was a very likeable stuffy wanker.
As I read the letters, picking up that sort of one-sided friendship one gets as one reads another's writing, I started to feel a bit of dread, which at times approached something like real horror. You read his letters, in order, following him from 22 to 81 years old, and of course you know he's going to die, and all his complaints of pain and illness take on a grim aspect, and his wishes to publish The Silmarillion in his lifetime take on a hopeless aspect, and then the final letter — which is all too ordinary — is over, and then you feel something like the shock that comes with the unexpected news of the death of someone you know, whom you saw only just the other day, and who seemed perfectly healthy.
As I read the letters, picking up that sort of one-sided friendship one gets as one reads another's writing, I started to feel a bit of dread, which at times approached something like real horror. You read his letters, in order, following him from 22 to 81 years old, and of course you know he's going to die, and all his complaints of pain and illness take on a grim aspect, and his wishes to publish The Silmarillion in his lifetime take on a hopeless aspect, and then the final letter — which is all too ordinary — is over, and then you feel something like the shock that comes with the unexpected news of the death of someone you know, whom you saw only just the other day, and who seemed perfectly healthy.