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Such bees! Bilbo had never seen anything like them. "If one were to sting me," He thought "I should swell up as big as I am!
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To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?
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I have in this War a burning private grudge — which would probably make me a better soldier at 49 than I was at 22: against that ruddy little ignoramus Adolf Hitler (for the odd thing about demonic inspiration and impetus is that it in no way enhances the purely intellectual stature: it chiefly affects the mere will). Ruining, perverting, misapplying, and making for ever accursed, that noble northern spirit, a supreme contribution to Europe, which I have ever loved, and tried to present in its true light.
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Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!
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I am in fact a Hobbit in all but size. I like gardens, trees, and unmechanized farmlands; I smoke a pipe, and like good plain food unrefrigerated, but detest French cooking; I like, and even dare to wear in these dull days, ornamental waistcoats. I am fond of mushrooms out of a field; have a very simple sense of humor which even my appreciative critics find tiresome; I go to bed late and get up late when possible. I do not travel much.
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And sometimes you didn't want to know the end… because how could the end be happy?
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It's a dangerous business, going out your door.
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I'm a Roman Catholic! A devout Roman Catholic.
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Yes, I am here. And you are lucky to be here too after all the absurd things you've done since you left home.
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Supernatural is a dangerous and difficult word in any of its senses, looser or stricter. But to fairies it can hardly be applied, unless super is taken merely as a superlative prefix. For it is man who is, in contrast to fairies, supernatural; whereas they are natural, far more natural than he. Such is their doom.
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Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that came down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.
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All the same, I should like it all plain and clear," said he obstinately, putting on his business manner usually reserved for people who tried to borrow money off him, and doing his best to appear wise and prudent and professional and live up to Gandalf's recommendation. "Also I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth"--by which he meant: "What am I going to get out of it ? and am I going to come back alive?
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Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo! By water, wood and hill, by reed and willow, By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us! Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!
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All have their worth and each contributes to the worth of the others.
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Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter! spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
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I don't feel any guilt complex about The Lord of the Rings.
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On their deathbed men will speak true, they say.
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One has personally to come under the shadow of war to feel fully its oppression; but as the years go by it seems now often forgotten that to be caught in youth by 1914 was no less hideous an experience than to be involved in 1939 and the following years. By 1918 all but one of my close friends were dead.
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The War is not over and the one that is, or the part of it, has been largely lost. But it is of course wrong to fall into such a mood, for Wars are always lost, and War always goes on; and it is no good growing faint.
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We set out to save the Shire, Sam and it has been saved - but not for me.
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After all, I believe that legends and myths are largely made of 'truth', and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear.
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History often resembles myth, because they are both ultimately of the same stuff.
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This thing all things devours: Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, And beats high mountain down.
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We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious. They stole it from us. Sneaky little hobbitses. Wicked, tricksy, false!