The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien (1937; revised 1951 and 1966).
The Hobbit film trilogy: An Unexpected Journey (2012); The Desolation of Smaug (2013); The Battle of Five Armies (2014). Directed by Peter Jackson.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit”: That’s certainly an inauspicious beginning for a literary series that would eventually include one of the twentieth century’s best-known fantasy epics, even if the tale did, as its author J.R.R. Tolkien admitted, “grow in the telling.”
The Hobbit was published in 1937 and awarded a prize from The New York Herald Tribune for best juvenile fiction. I first read it when I was 7 years old, and it was the first book I remember reading without any pictures in it. To say I loved it would be an understatement—in many ways it was my first literary experience, along with the Alice and Oz books (none of which were as obviously “novels”). Bilbo Baggins (half a Took) would appear on the face of it an unlikely protagonist for a children’s novel, being a stout snob in his late fifties or thereabouts and inclined to a mild-mannered but clear disapproval of unexpected visitors—but I was entranced by his story and his growing role in it, by the way that this unimaginative and sensible person managed, convincingly and without too much butter, to get the best of a half-dozen terrors of increasing complexity and size. The mutton-gobbling trolls, the goblins of the Misty Mountains, Gollum (“I don’t know where he came from or who or what he was”), the giant spiders, the wood elves (ostensibly not villains but you could have fooled me), the dragon—it was an ever-swelling bestiary of increasingly unpleasant things from under the bed, and Bilbo’s generally commonsensical approach to dealing with them was a revelation.