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correspondence in the early sixties. I now regret it; Donald Swann, who set a number of the poems to music, told me he was an amiable and approachable man, and that I ought to call and see him when I was in Oxford. When I had written this essay, I dropped him a line to say that I intended publishing a short book on him, and suggesting that we might meet. In fact, a Dutch 'occult' magazine had suggested I interview him. Alas, the attempt at contact ended as a comedy of non-communication. I received a letter back from Tolkien's solicitor, saying that he was alarmed to hear I had written a book called Tree By Tolkien. That sounded, he said, as if it was written by Tolkien, and therefore conveyed a false impression. In any case, he said, Tolkien was an old man, not in the best of health, and highly sensitive to critical comments about his work. So would I please agree to suppress the work—at least, for the duration of Tolkien's lifetime ... ? The general tone was haughty, as befits one who has been appointed the mouthpiece of a great writer.
    I replied that unfortunately it was too late to withdraw the book; it was already at the printers. However, if he was worried about harsh critical comment, he had no cause for concern. It was, on the whole, thoroughly pro-Tolkien. As to the objection that bookshop-browsers might think it a new work by Tolkien, this was unlikely because (a) it was a limited edition that would only be sold to subscribers, and (b) my name would be displayed prominently on the cover. I explained that the title was an oblique reference to Tolkien's own story Leaf by Niggle ... I ended by saying that it would be kind if he could pass my letter on to Tolkien, or at least to someone in his immediate family, just in case he might be willing to see me.
    Evidently the man did not like to be crossed. A short and harsh letter said it was highly unreasonable of me to persist in publishing a book against Tolkein's wishes, and that he still felt the title conveyed a false impression. He ended irritably: 'I have mentioned it to Mr. Tolkien. He does not want to see you .'
    I was sorry; not because I couldn't get to see the old man—after all, he was ill and more than eighty years old, and no doubt I shall be just as unwilling to see strangers at that age—but because it seemed a pity that a kindly and courteous man should be represented by anyone so rude. I did receive an apologetic letter from a girl at his publishers, saying that for some time he had been too ill to see anyone, and that his family were concerned in case he was upset by attacks on himself — from which I gather that some of the patronizing comments of critics had caused offense. I replied that it was a pity I hadn't been able to interview him—think how posterity would have welcomed an interview of Shakespeare by John Milton. I hoped the comment might tease her into sending the letter to Tolkien, but it didn't. A couple of weeks later, copies of the book arrived, and I sent one care of his publishers. The day after I sent it, I heard news of his death. I also sent two copies of the book to W . H. Auden, who had told me he would be seeing Tolkien in Oxford, asking him, if he got the chance, to smuggle one in to Tolkien. A few days after that, I heard on the radio that Auden had died ... .
    Re-reading the book a year later, I find that I have nothing to add to it. But it strikes me that Tolkien's popularity was essentially a part of the 'occult revival' of the 1960s. Of course, he deserved it; his fantasy is a classic, and will undoubtedly live as long as Alice in Wonderland and Gulliver's Travels, and probably longer than the fantasies of George MacDonald and C. S. Lewis, being easier to read. But that is no guarantee that a book achieves the fame it deserves; Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy reached a wide audience only after his death; and David Lindsay's Voyage to Arcturus— fundamentally a greater book than The Lord of the Rings because it has