The Silmarillion is now officially the worst book I have ever read, easily beating out The Savage Detectives. I have to admit to not really knowing what I was getting myself into with this book - it feels very similar to reading the bible. Thousands of years are covered in its pages: epic battles are described with single sentences, and hundreds of characters and places are introduced and immediately discarded. It's not quite 'Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat...', but it isn't far off either:The Feanturi, masters of spirits, are brethren, and they are called most often Mandos and Lorien. Yet these are rightly the names of the places of their dwelling, and their true names are Namo and Irmo.
Namo the elder dwells in Mandos, which is westward in Valinor. He is the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, and the summoner of the spirits of the slain. He forgets nothing; and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Iluvatar. He is the Doomsman of the Valar; but he pronounces his dooms and his judgements only at the bidding of Manwe. Vaire the Weaver is his spouse...
If you think this is just background, and the real story is coming, think again. I can see that Tolkien wanted to create a mythology and a world for his language to live in outside of the timelines of LOTR and The Hobbit, but did it have to be in such a boring format? Even if he had gone into some detail about the battles, or life in the elvish cities it might have held my interest. I'm bailing at page 248.
0 stars.
