Unfinished Tales, Part I

Unfinished Tales, by J.R.R. Tolkien & Christopher Tolkien

Unfinished Tales is one of the pivotal books in my collection, and I have more than one tale about it. Hence, this is “Part I” of the tale, not part I of the Unfinished Tales.

All clear? Good.

I discovered Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales in a bookstore near Westminster in 1984. It was a black-bordered wonder, with Roger Garland’s picture of Glaurung the Dragon leering from the front. This was the 1983 paperback printing by Allen and Unwin, ISBN 0-04-823208-4, third edition.

I, a recent Tolkien convert, was thunderstruck. I was 10 years old on my first trip outside of my own country. I had already read everything I could get my hands on in the States, and here was something new, something wonderful.

I remember very clearly that sense of amazed joy when I discovered the book, followed closely by a sense of panic that my parents wouldn’t get it for me. I remember those two emotions very clearly, intermixed with a vision of green velvet and dark brown wood (which I can only take to be a garbled impression of the interior of the shop and shelves, unless I was in some sort of snooker hall.)

And then I remember walking in the shadow of Westminster, clutching my treasure, having already read the introduction, savoring the anticipation of more undiscovered Tolkien. I needn’t had worried; I don’t think I got much more past “Ijustfoundthistolkienbookanditsnotavailablebackhomeandlookatthetableofcontents” before my Mom understood the situation and reassured me that we wouldn’t have to leave my new best friend behind.

I remember the worry, though, as sharp as the joy. Odd. Memories from that long ago are difficult to sort out.

This oversized paperback assured me instant geek credibility for years to come. There was nothing like showing up to a Dungeons and Dragons session with it tucked into my bag to let everyone know who the real Tolkien expert was. At the very first English 318 (Tolkien) class held at Rice in 1994, there was only one UK edition of Unfinished Tales. And it was mine.

Unfortunately, there were 10 other Tolkien experts in that class with me, and the few extra years I’d had with my beloved black book with the funny dragon on the cover didn’t matter in the end, because, you know, it was never actually a competition.

Twenty years after I first found Unfinished Tales, I can safely say it’s not a good idea to base your self-esteem on which books you own. Or how many books you own, for that matter.

I’ve also learned that there is very little to compare with the unexpected joy of discovering a new book by a favorite. There are maybe, at the most, a half-dozen books in my entire collection that I was actually surprised to find.

None of them rival that day in England.