Golden Treasure

I've always been a fan of florid writing: my love of Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, and F. Scott Fitzgerald attest to that.  J.R.R. Tolkien is one of the few exceptions: the vivid imagery and rhythmic lullaby of his words proved his writing prowess, as well as sucked me into a fantastic read (which I highly recommend), The Hobbit.   I admire it because I think it's among the modes of entertainment both children and adults can enjoy equally, complete with a fantastical plot and charismatic personages.  But I love it because of the nostalgia it inspires: Tolkien writes in the same voice as my parents' bedtime stories to me when I was young--the kind of phrases that just roll off the tongue and can only be read in tones of wonder.  The Hobbit represents nightly conversations on the rug before the fire during out cold-for-Atlanta winters; it's my mom reading Harry Potter to me before bed and mimicking the characters' voices; it's finishing a Nancy Drew book a day in junior high; and now, as I peruse my shelves of George Orwell and Shakespeare, it's my strongest connection to the fantasy of winter tales, bedtime stories, and slinking sleuths.  And it still impresses the heck out of people to have read it.