I've told this story before (Aug. 2012, for
Mythprint):
When the door of the Coos Bay, Oregon, public library closed behind me that day in (probably) the second half of 1966, my pre-Tolkien world had just moments of existence left.
Once through the doorway, one turned right, to the children's section, or left to the adult section. If, on that day when I was 11, I poked around the children's section first, then the moment that day when I walked across to the adult section (not for the first time) was a turning point in my life.
A memory of the library's eye-catching display: the Ballantine Tolkien paperbacks were set out with the Barbara Remington Middle-earth map and/or the "Come to Middle-earth!" poster. The artwork attracted me powerfully. I liked it (still do). At that moment, it looked science-fictiony to me. I didn't think in terms of a distinct genre of fantasy... yet.
So I checked out and read
The Hobbit. It connected with my existing love of Scandinavian mythology and folklore. As a boy, Tolkien desired dragons with a great desire. I desired trolls. (Look at the troll-drawings by Werenskiold and Kittelsen, in the Asbjornsen and Moe collection of
Norwegian Folk Tales.) True, Tolkien's trolls talk like Cockneys. But they have the authentic troll-qualities of ill-gotten wealth, largeness, stupidity, coarseness, and dangerous appetite. Yes, I relished the hobbit, the dwarves, the wizard, the dragon-talk. But it seems people usually don't say much about Bert, William, and Tom, though; I for one was delighted: something new for me about trolls.
And in a book displayed in the adult section!
Who could have expected such a thing?