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Roger Scruton

The order of the middle movements in Mahler's Sixth Symphony

Poetic Truths

Religious Art in the Twenty-First Century

Robin Walker at 60

Refuge in the Forest

Birdsong and Music

Tennis with Gershwin

The Rest is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century

Renewing Musical Tradition

Lucky thirteen

Elgar's Falstaff: a Comparative Analysis

The Art of the Fugue

A Wistful Sophisticate

Britten and Berkeley

Renewing the Past, some personal thoughts

That Intimate, Familiar Sense

The Music of English Pastoral

Radical Angst

Titian's Flaying of Marsyas as a Metaphor of Transformation

A Distant Fury of Battle

A Perverse Genius

  

The Shorter Lord of the Rings

Everyone was enjoying themselves at Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party.

"Mind if I have a glance at that ring of yours, Bilbo?" said Gandalf. "Hm, I thought so, it's the One Ring of Power. Better deal with it straightaway. Gwaihir", he called, and an eagle swooped down, "take this to Mount Doom and drop it in one of the cracks". The eagle took the ring and flew off. "It's more sensible than giving it to Frodo or Aragorn or anyone else", Gandalf said. "They might get corrupted by it and want to keep it."

"You are right, Gandalf", said Aragorn, coming up. "And now I get to be King without having to fight any battles. Goody!"

Gwaihir flew straight to Mount Doom and did as he was told. Barad-Dür immediately collapsed and Sauron had a heart attack and died. Everyone lived happily ever after. Frodo sometimes used to complain that he'd had a rather boring life, but he didn't really mind.

 
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