So, the trip to the city wasn’t supposed to involve a book haul – especially when I was hardly looking for an extensive English section in Madrid – but as it sometimes (alright, always) happens with me, I find a way. Turns out that the basement of the Casa del Libro in Gran Via has a huge languages section and a wide range in English. For only about two walls worth it’s really very good!! I limited myself to four. These are the spoils.
Extracts from my full piece, which is available on LiveJournal.
And so has the road gone, beneath my feet, as I’ve journeyed through my love for Tolkien’s work, and all the forms it is taken, and incarnations in which it was expressed. It is worth remembering, for it has been long, and much has happened, and many memories, no matter how mundane or material, deserve to be remembered for themselves. Let this be, then, something of a record, a personal indulgence, for my own sake, like a scrapbook of words preserved in the great technological cloud of our era. Let this be a map and a chart of the road that has come down from my door, which I have pursued with eager feet indeed.
It began in my seventh year, when the months were drawing down into the monsoon, and minds were turning to Deepavali and Christmas afterwards. One drizzly evening, in the largest bookstore on the island of Singapore, my home, my mother put a book into my hands that would come to change me forever. It sounds dramatic; it sounds clichéd. Whatever presumptions may try and dissuade you believing, however, it is the truth.