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Shelob has appeared and disappeared. Frodo appears to be dead. I am tempted to stop now and not read on, to maintain this deliciously tragic illusion. After I read on, I will never again not know whether or not Frodo dies. I am relishing not knowing. I am relishing sharing in Sam's despair.

You can never never-have-read a book again, once you've read it. It's exciting.

But I'm four pages away from the end of this volume, and then I'll be up to the last volume, and then there'll be nothing left of this that I never-have-read. Kind of sad, that. Although it's been a really long journey, in terms of slogging through Dead Marshes of Tolkien's ridiculous verbosity. It's just exhausting, how much description that man shoved into each scene. I mean, really. Were there no editors in his day?

I've been on this book for two months. It never used to take me this long to finish a book. Back when I had time to read for pleasure.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:05 AM | shower me with attention