Those who know me would not hesistate to agree when I call myself an avid reader. I love reading; I love being immersed in a world other than my own, that captures me and takes me away until it’s three in the morning and I’ve forgotten that I have to get up early the next day. Aside from that fact, though, I could never really give you a list of my favourite books, because I only have one.
The Hobbit is the only book that I can truly claim as my favourite book. No other book I’ve read has ever stood up to the level I hold The Hobbit. It’s a combination of reasons, I’m sure, why I love this book so much, but it has been a companion to me for so many years, stood so many trials and rereadings that I practically have the thing memorized. Eleven times, I’ve read that book. I still am as amazed by it as the first time I read it.
When I was in seventh grade, I was having a hard time. I didn’t fit in at my school, I felt ostracized, rejected, inadaquate at times, one of the few people I felt I had on my side during that time was my teacher. He was kind to me, made me feel as though I was important, even if the people who surrounded me didn’t think so. He was the one who handed me The Hobbit for the first time. We never read the book for school, he just thought it would be something I would enjoy.
At a time when all I wanted to do was escape, this book which told tales of doing just that, of running off and having adventures was the one thing I needed. It has continued to fuel that need for escape, that need for adventure, since that day. The Hobbit is the reason I travel, the reason I write, the reason I strive to reach that great, wide, somewhere.
Without it, I would be so much different than I am now. JRR Tolkien gave me that. And I am forever grateful.