![]() ![]() I’m afraid that’s all I’m hoping for all the time.’”Īnalytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. I mean plain ordinary rest, and sleep, and waking up to a morning’s work in the garden. ‘And then,’ Sam said, ‘we can have some rest and some sleep. But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. ![]() “Frodo answered: ‘No, they never end as tales. “‘Don’t the great tales never end?’ asked Sam. We are part of so many stories, and The (Neverending) Story, as well. There we are, written right into the story.Įugene Peterson once said that people bring two questions with them to church: Is there a story? And am I in it? I like to think the apostle John had the same fun when he wrote down Jesus’ words to Thomas: “Because you have seen me, you have believed blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29). My sixth-grade self had written to my future Grade 6 daughter! Sadly, I could find no picture of this particular sixth grade crush (there were several crushes that year), but the joy was in the marginalia. ![]() I’ll show him to you, dear.” There she was, in the story. Samara and I were stunned to see a note to her in the margin, written in green pen: “If my daughter is reading this right now and wants to see a picture of, just ask me. In that entry I revealed an intense crush on a boy who had picked me first in choosing teams for basketball at recess. On December 6, 2017, I read my December 6, 1988, entry to Samara. In a much homelier way, I used this same motif in my daily diary 30 years ago.Įvery night, I read to my two oldest daughters the diary entries that I wrote when I was their age. He had to give the empress a name and then re-imagine Fantasia back into being. ![]() Bastian, the reader, became (or always was) Bastian, the character, who had an important job to do in the rebuilding of Fantasia. The empress of the dying magical land of Fantasia says that all of their adventures had happened in order to captivate the human child who was now reading about them. That bit of Tolkien reminded me of the bit of The Neverending Story, when the boy, Bastian, who is reading the book, The Neverending Story, finds himself in it. “I bet Tolkien had so much fun, writing that bit,” said my daughter, who wants to be an author someday. I was ‘Mom’ and not ‘Dad,’ Samara, my girl and not my boy, and we were sitting on her bed, not at the fireside, but there was no missing us. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?’” Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. Why, Sam, to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. with a laugh that fills the staircase and makes the rocks bend in to listen: ‘It’s saying a lot too much. Frodo was very brave, wasn’t he, dad?’ ‘Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.’ “People will say: ‘Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!’ And they’ll say: ‘Yes, that’s one of my favourite stories. In the midst of their stepping outside their story to consider it, we found ourselves written into it! ‘We’re in one, of course but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards.’” “‘I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales,’ Sam goes on. I was reading this aloud to my seventh grade daughter, Samara, and we both smiled as we listened to Sam and Frodo step outside their story to consider it. As they rest, Sam gets to wondering: “‘I wonder what sort of tale we’ve fallen into?’” Tolkien, Frodo and Sam, on their way to destroy the Ring, take a rest “in a dark crevice between two great piers of rock” on the stairs of Cirith Ungol. TOWARD THE END OF The Two Towers, by J.R.R. ![]()
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