There was a clue here to his personality: an impressive confidence in his own opinions and a steely self-belief that had nothing to do with the avuncular, affectionate grandfather that I knew. I was too young of course to wonder then about how he reconciled the pantheistic world that he had created with his own fervent Christianity.

Later I came to realise that my grandfather was not just the author of The Lord of the Rings but also an intellectual giant, who spoke and read numerous languages and was a world-renowned expert in his chosen field. My father has devoted himself tirelessly to editing my grandfather’s unpublished writing for publication in the 43 years since his death and this has so far run to more than 20 books.

Mining memories

As a man, I felt dwarfed: how could I not? And in my own middle age spurred me on to have something of my own to know myself by; to become a writer myself. This wasn’t easy. I thought my first book was a masterpiece, but the unanimous negative reaction of numerous literary agents on both sides of the Atlantic soon convinced me of my error! But I persisted and slowly found some measure of success. I had thought of my grandfather as an obstacle; he had become the great tree casting the long shadow from which I wanted to escape. Was I to be Simon Tolkien or just the grandson of a great man?

Somewhat ironically, I soon found that I needed my grandfather to sell my books. Writers cannot succeed without publicity, and my name was my passport to gaining media attention. Interviewers understandably wanted to know what it was like to be JRR Tolkien’s grandson and so I mined my memories until they became stale: gold turned to dust in my hand.