Before them in the West the world lay still, formless and grey; but even as they looked, the shadows of night melted, the colours of the waking earth returned: green flowed over the wide meads of Rohan; the white mists shimmered in the water-vales; and far off to the left, thirty leagues or more, blue and purple stood the White Mountains, rising into peaks of jet, tipped with glimmering snows, flushed with the rose of morning.
Last time I read Lord of the Rings, I had to set down the book after this passage until the tears cleared away. Tolkien is a master of words, describing with a simple beauty that is both invisible and outstanding. As cliché as it is to say, if I ever become half the writer he is, I’ll be content.
I couldn’t think of a good photo to accompany this passage— it stands on its own, a vivid masterpiece that could only be exceeded by seeing the White Mountains themselves. The best writing stirs in me the longing for places I’ve never seen, a call to adventure, a passionate aching for a different place. I call it wanderlust. C.S. Lewis might call it Joy.
~Lisa Shafter
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