The Hobbit
Chapter 1
An Unexpected Party

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats?-?the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it - and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.
This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained-well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.

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Not quite as serious as the Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit is the quintessential fantasy book. Not Epic Fantasy like the Lord of the Rings or Eye of the World, it is a simple tale of a relunctant Hobbit, the Hero, in his quest. Like all good fantasy novels or even role-playing adventures set in the Dungeons and Dragons world which replaced Hobbits with Halflings, the characters need a "Quest". Of course, the goal of this quest must be in a distant, strange land and the journey itself must be arduous. Trolls, elves, and giant spiders are some of the obstacles that try to prevent the Hero from reaching the goal. Although romance is absent from this fantasy, there is politics as Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Goblins fight among each other for the riches which await all heroes at the end of their quests. While the main Hero is always spared the spector of death, those around him add to the severity of the Quest. A Great Battle at the end of the book kills several of the Hero's companions.

Perhaps Bilbo is an unlikely Hero to be the foundation of fantasy literature. He is reluctant, afraid, and unskilled in combat. On the other hand, he is clever. He outwits those who stand in his way such as Gollum or think of clever solutions to problems such as escaping the Elves in barrels.

A wonderful book that every person should experience when they are a child.

Authors that have influenced me

Robert E. Howard
Edgar Rice Burroughs
J. R. R. Tolkien
Robert Jordan
Michael Moorcock
Lin Carter
L. Sprague de Camp
H.P. Lovecraft
Roger Zelazny
Terry Brooks
Piers Anthony

Perhaps my most memorable reading moments was in middle school. Starting in the 7th grade with J.R.R. Tolkien, I read all sorts of fantasy books. While some never did appeal to me like
David Eddings or others whom I never read such as Marion Zimmer Bradley, I discovered a fascinating world. Unfortunately, along with my comic book collecting hobby, university life changed me. Oh, the life of a poor college student. And after college, moving to Japan and later Korea did not make book reading an easy hobby to maintain. Maybe some day, when I settle down, I can finally meet all those interesting characters waiting for me...

Nine Princes of Amber Roger Zelazny
Chapter 1

It was starting to end, after what seemed most of eternity to me.
I attempted to wriggle my toes, succeeded. I was sprawled there in a hospital bed and my legs were done up in plaster casts, but they were still mine.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them, three times.
The room grew steady.
Where the hell was I?
Then the fogs were slowly broken, and some of that which is called memory returned to me. I recalled nights and nurses and needles. Every time things would begin to clear a bit, someone would come in and jab me with something. That’s how it had been. Yes. Now, though, I was feeling halfway decent. They’d have to stop.
Wouldn’t they?
The thought came to assail me: Maybe not.
Some natural skepticism as to the purity of all human motives came and sat upon my chest. I’d been over narcotized, I suddenly knew. No real reason for it, from the way I felt, and no reason for them to stop now, if they’d been paid to keep it up. So play it cool and stay dopey, said a voice which was my worst, if wiser, self.
So I did.
A nurse poked her head in the door about ten minutes later, and I was, of course, still sacking Z’s. She went away.
By then, I’d reconstructed a bit of what had occurred
I had been in some sort of accident, I remembered vaguely. What had happened after that was still a blur; and as to what had happened before, I had no inkling whatsoever. But I had first been in a hospital and then brought to this place, I remembered. Why? I didn’t know.
However, my legs felt pretty good. Good enough to hold me up, though I didn’t know how much time had lapsed since their breaking?and I knew they’d been broken.
So I sat up. It took me a real effort, as my muscles were very tired. It was dark outside and a handful of stars were standing naked beyond the window. I winked back at them and threw my legs over the edge of the bed.
I was dizzy, but after a while it subsided and I got up, gripping the rail at the head of the bed, and I took my first step.
Okay. My legs held me.
So, theoretically, I was in good enough shape to walk out.
I made it back to the bed, stretched out and thought. I was sweating and shaking. Visions of sugarplums, etc.
In the State of Denmark there was the odor of decay...
It had been an accident involving an auto, I recalled. One helluva one....
Then the door opened, letting in light, and through slits
beneath my eyelashes I saw a nurse with a hypo in her hand.
She approached my bedside, a hippy broad with dark hair and big arms.
Just as she neared, I sat up.
“Good evening,” I said.
“Why-good evening,” she replied.
“When do I check out?” I asked.
“I’ll have to ask Doctor.”
“Do so,” I said.
“Please roll up your sleeve.”
“No thanks.”
“I have to give you an injection”
“No you don’t. I don’t need it”
“I’m afraid that’s for Doctor to say.”
“Then send him around and let him say it. But in the meantime, I will not permit it.”
“I’m afraid I have my orders.”
“So did Eichmann, and look what happened to him,” and I shook my head slowly.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll have to report this...
“Please do,” I said, “and while you’re at it, tell him I’ve decided to check out in the morning.”
“That’s impossible. You can’t even walk?and there were internal injuries....”
“We’ll see,” said I. “Good night”
She swished out of sight without answering.
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All great authors have their own voice. Roger Zelanzy is one such author. Short descriptions. Dialogue that dashed without breath until nothing was said. No long prose like Robert Jordan. Just a few key words brought such vivid descriptions. I first learned of Roger Zelanzny in middle school, during the days when Amber was popular. These are the first words that I read by Roger Zelazny. Truly a master at his art.