“The Lord of the Rings” by J. R. R. Tolkien

Now that I’m at an age where I don’t really care what other people think, I can be completely honest: I love Tolkien, wholeheartedly and without reservation. I’m a geek, I’m a fanboy, I can say “farewell” in Elvish. I’m listening to it, in fact, on my iPod, for the umpty-gazillionth time, and much as I still love it, the one thing I wish I could do is read it again without knowing how it turns out. That first time, when I was 12 or so, was one of the great reading experiences of my life.

These were my favorite books when I was a child.

The Lord of the Rings is the greatest work of literature in any language in the 20th century, even though in some ways he was creating the literature of the 10th century all over again

As for my favorite book when I was a young adult, The Lord of the Rings stands head and shoulders above the rest.

The Lord of the Rings was my favorite book as a child.

I read it as a teenager and it so caught my imagination that I dreaded reaching the end.

The work of epic fantasy to which all other fantasy novelists can only dream to aspire.

I will boldly say that I loved the Lord of the Rings.

When I was a child, The Lord of the Rings were my favorite books.

I’m not a 16-year-old boy, but whenever I see a new hillside or plain or town I view it through Tolkien eyes and see ringwraiths and dwarfs waiting in the shadows.

I read it when I was a sophomore in college. I skipped all of my classes and sustained myself on pizza and short naps until I finished it.