A nice pickle they were all in now: all neatly tied up in sacks, with three angry trolls (and two with burns and bashes to remember) sitting by them, arguing whether they should roast them slowly, or mince them fine and boil them, or just sit on them one by one and squash them into jelly.

He knew that all the hazards and perils were now drawing together to a point: the next day would be a day of doom, the day of final effort or disaster, the last gasp.

I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations.

What course am I to take?" "Towards danger; but not too rashly, nor too straight.

It is mine, I tell you. My own. My precious. Yes, my precious.

The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears.

I invented that little rhyme about 'One Ring to rule them all', I remember, in the bath one day.