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[page 1] <"PALANTIR" in Handwriting> <"Editorial" in Handwriting> You probably know by now that I have just read the ring trilogy. No I know why so many people seem to be hung up on Tolkien. These books are so fraught with wonder and magic that it is impossible now to get hung up. I discovered something interesting a few years back. That these are books that must wait for the proper time to read them. If you try before that time you may as well forget it because it just doesn't make it. _Huckleberry Finn_ was one of these. I tried to read it at the sae time as _Tom Sawyer_ but I couldn't seem to get swinging. So I stashed it for about five years, and then read it, finding it one of the most interesting books I had read to date. The same thing happened with the books of Talbot Mundy. Bill kept shoving them at me, Bill being hooked on Talbot Mundy, and I kept hedging, without really knowing why. But the day finally came when it was time, and I read them and was much impressed. Last ear just befre SEECON, Bruce Pelz kindly lent me his copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_, and I made it through one chapter before I gave it up as a bad job. I had tried previous to that to read _The Hobbit_, and came up with the same results. I don't know why this was the time to read these books, but it was, and I consider that I have now read the justification fornot @for not@ only the printing press, but teh entiure English language. So now I have read _The Lord of the Rings_. I almost don't know how to speak of them, so exquisite they are. When one reads these books, the magic of them makes this world seem unreal, and the delicate filigreed [page 2] imagery of Tolkiens @Tolkien's@ work overlays it with the veils of Faerie. You are not the same after the reading. I was moved to say perhaps a little blasphemously, that it was apity @a pity@ Tolkien wasn't God. Palantir is going to be the title of the editorial of this magazine. The word means "the one who looks far away", and since all editorials cover a myriad of subject, and this is no exception, it is probably as good a title as any. I trust the Fellowship of the Ring, whose offical organ also hears this title will not object too loudly. From time to time, in my battle with the Powers That Be in Darkest Redondo Beach, I come across things that I have to care about or flip. One such gem of efficiency is the United States Post Office. If I didn't like communication with the outside world in general, and fans in particular, and it's being the only game in town, so to speak, I would BOYCOTT THE HELL OUT OF THE UNITED STATES POST OFFICE. When one is annoyed with a particular commercial, one can refuse to buy the product. If you are bugged at the service in a certain store, youcan @you can@ give the sales people a bad time or patronize another store. If the city government bothers you, you can write letters to the editors of local newspapers, needle city officials wit hincessant letters and phone calls, or run for office yourself. If your neighbors get on your nerves, you can throw garbage over the fence, tell the fuzz they're a public nuisance, or move. If living is a drag, you can cut your throat. But I am at a loss, after six months of constant altercation, what to do about the North Redondo Beach Station of the United States Post Office. Good Ghod, they are driving me slowly to distraction. When I moved into this area, I dutifully sent in change of address cards in all the names I get mailin @mail in@. After one month, in which I failed to receive any mail at all, atall @at all@, I shyly inquired wha @what@ happen @happened@. A wide-eyed clerk informed me they had no record of my change of address, and that they had been sending back my mail as moved-no-address. More cards. Satisfaction. Temporarily. So like I trustingly went on vacation at that point, leaving a notice to the effect that our mailbox had no front, and hold the mail because the neighborhood kids, etc. On our return, the frontless mailbox was stuffed with products of the paper industry. As I sadly collected the stuff. I wondered how many had made the little monster scene, and would never more cross the ken of mortal man. For the entire next week, like no mail! So I made it down to the North Redondo Beach Station of the United States Office and said what's the bit? I was then presented with about 73 pieces of mail, all dutifully held up for the week _after_ our return. The notice was checked, and sure enough the dates were correct. _Lightbulbsville!_ Like APOLOGY. Nuts. It has become necessary to make monthly trips down to the North Redondo Beach Station of the United States Post Office, to leave, like gentle reminders,; and not only that, but they sent back my precious 100th FAPA mailing as unknown at this address. O CENSORED UNPRINTABLE. In the ever-present Daily Breeze, out local newspaper, I see that the postal rates are going up another cent this month. The [unreadable] Redondo Beach Stations of the United States Post Office have issued a statement to the effect of that no-week of grace will be given as before in this matter, and starting one minute after midnight of the specified day, posts the stamps would be affixed to the offending piece of mail. I wonder if it's possible to fold the North Redondo Beach Station of the United States Post office till it's all straight, and shove it into the proper letter slot.

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