The Children of Húrin

That’s the title of the posthumous novel written by J. R. R. Tolkien, and now completed by his son, Christopher Tolkien. I’m uncertain whether to take the plunge and get it. On the one hand, we have a strong recommendation from Nicholas Whyte, but on the other, we have the digested read that appears in today’s Guardian. I suspect that the latter is probably closer to how I will find it.

 

In my old age, I’m getting a bit tired of epic fantasy. I was recently recommended A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin (what is it about these R.R. initials, anyway?). It wasn’t bad, but halfway through the second book I came down with fantasy fatigue. Endless pages of characters discussing their lineage, forsooth, doth not a gripping yarn make. Still, I battled on, and yes, there were places where my interest quickened. But what came as a really cold shower was the realisation that the author was churning out these books like there was no tomorrow (What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?). There are at least six books in the projected series, and I’m exhausted after three.

 

Which makes me a trifle nervous about investing in the latest product from the Tolkien family.