A couple of days ago a good friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about the Nobel Literature Prize committee and J.R.R Tolkien.
What it amounted to was that according to the committee’s lofty ideals, Tolkien was a nonstarter for consideration by them for the literature prize that year, after his friend and colleague C.S Lewis nominated him. Since the article was posted it has drawn a lot of comments for or against Tolkien. I am one of the millions who firmly believe that J.R.R is one of the very best storytellers to come out of the twentieth century.
Granted his use of his and my mother tongue is very Edwardian and somewhat longwinded, but is that a bad thing? I think not. After all, each generation writes differently from those gone before, and so the way a story is written is purely down to the version of the language current for them at the time. In a hundred years from now, many future readers will puzzle of J.K Rowling’s use of the language, but I bet they will love her storytelling.
To illustrate my point, one of my favourite books was written during the Edwardian era – Riddle of the Sands
What is the problem with critics and most of the literary establishment? By that, I mean the top publishers and the more academically minded, those who still believe that no work was written by anyone other than them, using their own particular way of writing in the English language, or one of their disciples is truly worthy. Why do they seem to think that they and they alone, know what the reading public will like?
Who actually gives a damn about a bunch of literary snobs like them – certainly not the average reader? Just ask the millions of Tolkien lovers across the world. If J.R.R is rubbish, then I say give me more, please. Maybe those who run the big six publishing houses and the plethora of literary critics should stop blathering and get writing themselves. If they took up my challenge, would their work be read? Who knows – nothing is certain.