I succumbed to the temptation of fanfiction. I always regret it. It's always inferior, and usually tripe. But trust the true LOTR book lovers to step it up a notch. Lovingly written and in the memory of Tolkien traditions, no sap, no tripe, Strongly middle earth. Strongly Fourth Age. Perfect language. Grammatically correct (As far as I could tell) Sindarin.

Ah, we real LOTR buffs are a cultured lot. Notice how I sneak myself into their ranks.

Talk about being pliable. I was in misery reading this. 

"The general manager lost his whole family in one of the fires in the building," Tata said. "I went up to him today and I told him how sorry I was, and he said, 'Sir, we are going to beat this. We are going to build this Taj back into what it was. We're standing with you. We will not let this event take us down.'"

Another little gushing tribute from me to a great person. Whom have I listed so far? Tolkien, Tolstoy, Pearson? I don't know. But today I want to mention George Eastman. 

You'd think with examples like these, I'd be a better person.

I feel cold clammy chills when I think of his note "My work is done. Why wait?"

Will you tell me when my work is done?

That's right, rip that binding off. You look and you realise that another fetter you weren't even aware of has come right off.

What I mean to say is that, for all that I nod and agree that there are binds and limitations and prejudices holding people back, I don't open my eyes wide enough to see these fettering me, making me shrug and agree that good enough is good enough.

Now to hold on to that thought before the fetters creep back on.

I can't read it. I can't read it again and remember that he's going to die. 

back to the book

Nathaniel is dead. 

Every time I realise that again, I want to curl up and cry.

Characters in books affect me like this

Cold, crisp, the air is like a lettuce leaf. I am high up and I am leaning heavily on a pole, chin snuggled in my warm jacket. Dictators who stand cloak flapping as they surveyed the extent of their power must shiver so much in their defiant pose. The long white beams of light from below swing from side to side, their colour catch on the low hanging clouds. There is no power in me and its a shame. There ought to be. Drama demands it.