The Hobbit

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien (1937) As uncannily connected to our lives as TV and tobacco, the “hobbit” is singlehandedly responsible for me never being able to spell either habbit or rabit. Everyone knows the story—but just in case: A hobbit named Bilbo Baggins soars to decadent heights while trying to evade the authorities as he and his colleagues rake in billions by shamelessly masterminding crooked financial relationships in every sector of society. I read it (and “The Trilogy”) in high school and have been kicking around a nice copy for years, but decided to try an audiobook version, though I’m not interested in any that are abridged, or theatrical. Of the full-length narrations, there seem to be two competing readers, Andy Serkis and Rob Inglis—so I decided on both—simultaneously! (Not in either side of the headphones!—I’m not one of those nuts that says why did God give us two ears if he didn’t want us to multitask!) Well, Serkis is good, sounds like he records while pounding Red Bull—but when I got to his rendition of Gollum (never my favorite), I could only imagine having to clean the microphone after a session of his over-the-top spewing emotes. In fact, I even had to clean my headphones! So, I switched over to Inglis, who is so mellow that sometimes you think your Bluetooth has disconnected but then you can hear his slightly wheezing pauses like a ghost hiding on the other side of your darkened room. I thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere—but not the adventure so much. I was never one for slaying evil. I suppose I always felt I’d prefer boring tales of everydayness in the Shire—I wonder if there’s some fanfiction out there… of course there is. Also, the songs—not my cup of lapsang souchong—when I was a kid, I certainly didn’t attempt to sing them—I probably just skimmed them like eating my vegetables. It’s a bit alarming how much Money-Bags Baggins scarfs up—but then heartening, once again, to learn that he lives out his days as a happy undesirable.

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