[Diamond18]

Warning, this is very long. (Still read it though, please?)

"The Lord of the Rings" by Mary Shelley (author of "Frankenstein").

I am by birth a Bucklander, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that Farthing. But upon the death of my excellent and noble parents (of whose virtues are more numerous than the stars in the sky) I came to live with my dear and eccentric cousin Bilbo. This venerable old Hobbit seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. I was his friend and his "nephew", and something better—his heir, an innocent and helpless creature adopted by him, whom to bring up good, and whose future lot it was in his hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as he fulfilled his duty towards the being which he had adopted.

Thus I passed many long and happy years at Bag-end, knowing nothing but security, love, and feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of those tween years, before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the finding of that Ring, which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

When I had attainted the age of 33, my dear Bilbo bequeathed to me all his possessions, and took his leave of our fair and verdant land. Among these items was a tiny bauble, a Ring. A small, petty, insignificant thing. Cursed be the day I laid eyes on it! Oh unhappy source of all my troubles!

Unhappy, miserable creature am I! Oh, misery! Loathing! Torture! I cannot describe to you the uttermost depths to which my soul has been plunged. Life holds no joy for me, I am a broken and ruined Hobbit. Misery and agony are my constant companions, despondency and grief my only friends! My life is a melancholy tale of wretchedness and woe. No felicity or ease can I take from my miserable, miserable existence! I curse the sky, I curse the moon, I curse the rug in my bedroom!

My dear Samwise...my poor dear Samwise. Samwise had always been my favorite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. In Samwise I saw the image of my former self; he was simple yet anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference in cultures and creatures which he observed were to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. Ah, who could forget his astonishment, terror and lasting delight upon seeing the Oliphaunt?

And yet he is dead! Throttled! Strangled! Choked! Suffocated! Asphyxiated! By that foul, wretched Creature...the Creature Gollum! That loathsome monster! Wretch! Devil! Abhorred fiend! Foul Dwimmerlaik! Oh, no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch! Mingled with this horror, I feel the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space are now become a hell to me; and the change so rapid, the overthrow so complete! Wretched, despicable, loathsome, hideous wretch!

Misery and anguish, torment and torture! Why did I not die? More miserable than Hobbit ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents, how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture! Curse this mithril coat...

As I stood at the Cracks of Doom, I suddenly beheld the Creature advancing towards me with superhobbit speed. He approached, his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for Hobbit eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? And do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my sword wreaked upon your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay that I may trample you to the dust! And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore to myself that happy past which is now but a memory!"

He replied, "It’s always about you, isn’t it, Frodo?"

The Un-Happy and Miserable End