Before you read this post, take a look at the preamble to this list (to get an idea of why I’m writing).

The Hobbit, or There and Back Again, by J.R.R. Tolkien

A standalone novel written by Tolkien — a WWI veteran and prominent scholar of Germanic and Old English folklore — in 1937, The Hobbit is one of those books that was destined to become an instant classic. It also represents Tolkien’s first foray into Middle Earth. The combination of rich world building, a timeless quest narrative, and a merry band of would-be adventurers makes for an irresistible read. The Hobbit has everything one could want from a fairytale: a king in exile, a wise guide, an underworld journey, riddles with the devil, wild escapes, magical artifacts, destinies fulfilled, and — of course — a dragon. The book was intended for children (Tolkien’s own kids were his first readers), but it’s more than capable of keeping an adult’s attention.

What I love most about The Hobbit is the feeling of the book, the colloquial tone of the narrative. Tolkien manages to tell a story about fantastic creatures and strange locales, touching upon weighty themes of redemption and personal growth — while making you feel like you’ve never left the comfort of your armchair. All is achieved courtesy of The Hobbit‘s reluctant protagonist: Bilbo Baggins. In Bilbo (the tale’s ostensible author), Tolkien has created a nuanced amalgam of archetypes; the book is part bildungsroman, part quest, but its true magic emanates from its narrator and protagonist: the hobbit.

While Tolkien appropriated many creations from mythological sources — dwarves, elves, goblins, trolls, et cetera — the hobbit is an original. With his hairy feet, short stature, and love of simple pleasures, the hobbit is an instantly-recognizable member of the fantasy canon today.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Yet there is no real precedent for the hobbit-figure, in literature or folklore, and everyone attempting to appropriate hobbit-like qualities since Tolkien has only felt derivative. Tolkien’s use of the hobbit to frame his narrative is a masterstroke of originality, which sets him apart from contemporaries and successors alike.

I could talk about The Hobbit forever: the subtle ways Tolkien addresses subjects like greed, war, the environment; his careful use of mythic tropes; his lyrical prose style. But you should probably just read the book. Because it was written for children, the lengthy descriptions that clutter Tolkien’s later works are kept to a minimum. It’s a short read you could skim through in a weekend, but my recommendation is to savour it. Sit down with a cup of tea, curl up somewhere comfy, and let Tolkien (and Bilbo) take you on a journey through Middle Earth.

The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis (chronological order)

1. The Magician’s Nephew (1955)
2. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950)
3. The Horse and His Boy (1954)
4. Prince Caspian (1951)
5. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952)
6. The Silver Chair (1953)
7. The Last Battle (1956)

Mr. Tumness and Lucie illustration by Pauline Baynes.

Lewis comes as a natural successor to Tolkien, for several reasons: both Lewis and Tolkien were part of the same writing group at Oxford (known as the Inklings), making Lewis one of the first readers of The Hobbit. Both were also scholars of medieval literature. But while Tolkien drew mainly from mythological sources, Lewis’ bent was more towards religious inspiration. An interesting theological thinker in his own right (try reading Mere Christianity for a taste), Lewis leans heavily on Christian imagery in The Chronicles of Narnia, especially in the later books, and the series suffers at times.

The common criticism levelled at the Narnia series is its lack of coherence (Lewis did not write the books in chronological order or plan them beforehand). They vary dramatically in tone and each novel can basically be read as a standalone work. Many different readings have been proposed, but my recommendation is to stick with Lewis’ original trilogy — The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950), Prince Caspian (1951), and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952) — and only read the others if you simply need more Narnia! Here Lewis’ hodgepodge fantasy world is on display at its best; light-hearted and imaginative, although even The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is a bit hard to finish (and highly derivative of Gulliver’s Travels).

The common feature of Lewis’ first three books is their main protagonist, Lucy Pevensie, a schoolgirl transported out of our world into Narnia: a magical realm filled with fairytale creatures, animistic spirits, and even a few humans. Lucy’s strong Christian values… I mean, fundamental good nature… creates a bond between her and the world’s guardian/creator, Aslan the Lion. This bond is the guiding thread of the narrative in the “Lucy Trilogy”. Against each fresh challenge, whether an evil witch, an invading army, or an impossible voyage, Lucy’s integrity is the affirming message of the series. Her visit to the edge of the world signals an end to her time in Narnia, and our time enjoying the books… At the end of the day, the Narnia books are about the message, not the story, and they fall apart without Lucy.

Edmund and the Ice Queen illustration by Pauline Baynes.

As for the latter four: The Magician’s Nephew (1955) and The Horse and His Boy (1954) bookend The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe quite nicely. The Magician’s Nephew is a prequel, answering the question of Narnia’s creation and giving the reader a glimpse of the multiverse that precedes it. It’s probably the only other book I would recommend: it features some good characters and a compelling story of magic gone awry, but it does get extremely Biblical. The Horse and His Boy is a sequel, not bad plot-wise, but doomed by stereotyped characters and its lack of bearing on the main narrative. The Silver Chair (1953) is a sequel to The Dawn Treader, creepy and forgettable. The Last Battle (1956) is unreadable garbage — Lewis’ depiction of the Day of Judgement, pure and simple. Watch as he kills off all the characters you love and destroys Narnia forever. Seriously, don’t read this book, even if you get through the other six. Stick to the “Lucy Trilogy” and let Narnia remain a magical place, untroubled by poor storytelling.

The Earthsea Series, by Ursula K. LeGuin

1. A Wizard of Earthsea (1968)
2. The Tombs of Atuan (1971)
3. The Farthest Shore (1972)
4. Tehanu (1990)
5. Tales From Earthsea (2001) [short story collection]
6. The Other Wind (2001)

Map of the Earthsea archipelago

An incomparable series, set in a fictional archipelago of the same name, Earthsea was written in two parts: the first books were published in the late 60’s/early 70’s, while a few others were written in the 90’s. The author, Ursula K. LeGuin, is also a renowned science fiction writer and essayist, with a trophy case of awards that will make you wonder why you’ve never heard of her before! Of all the writers on this list, LeGuin is probably the best: a true master of her craft. Unlike the early Tolkien, she does not need any literary conceits to draw you into her imagined realm. From the first page, her evocative prose transports you to a land of wizards and dragons with its own tightly-knit logic, different yet strangely familiar to ours.

LeGuin’s simple stories feel like fables when you read them, which is why I’ve included them on this Introduction list. Nevertheless, they’re among the best epic fantasy you’ll ever encounter. The Earthsea Series follows the adventures of a young wizard named Sparrowhawk. These books chart his journey: his humble beginnings as a shepherd on the island of Gont, his magical education, and his quest to restore balance to the natural world. The first book — A Wizard of Earthsea — is quite Sparrowhawk-centric, but the others feature him in secondary roles: as a friend, a guide, or a mentor. By the time the series finishes, our hero is an old man, a myth in his own right.

The central preoccupation of the Earthsea series is the power of naming, which is the primary force in LeGuin’s imagined world. Names have a special significance for her characters. Knowing the true name of a person or a thing is the strongest kind of magic, and many of LeGuin’s antagonists employ this power for ill ends. Even the “good” characters are guilty of misusing it and LeGuin uses their moral ambiguity to provide a running commentary on power throughout the series.

What good is power when you’re too wise to use it?

Like most of the other titles on this first list, the Earthsea books were intended for children. Nevertheless, the narrative is thematically dense — a trademark of LeGuin’s writing — and this endears it to even adult readers. My recommendation is to start with the earlier Earthsea Trilogy: A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, and The Farthest Shore. These books are very short, but like The Hobbit, they’re meant to be savoured. Read them somewhere with a view of the sea and, if they catch your fancy, try the later instalments: Tehanu, The Other Wind and the short story collection Tales From Earthsea. These focus on Earthsea’s female protagonist, Tenar, who was first introduced in The Tombs of Atuan. Although not as strong as the originals, they continue to develop the narrative in interesting ways, giving further depth to LeGuin’s vivid world. This series is a personal favourite, I cannot recommend it enough.

The Chronicles of Prydain, by Lloyd Alexander

1. The Book of Three (1964)
2. The Black Cauldron (1965)
3. The Castle of Llyr (1966)
4. Taran Wanderer (1967)
5. The High King (1968)

The Chronicles of Prydain

Lloyd Alexander’s high fantasy series — about the adventures of Taran the “Assistant Pig-Keeper” — almost didn’t make the cut for this list due to its length (five books). Again, I am cheating around the YA restriction because I feel that The Chronicles of Prydain is one of the classics. Written in the 60’s, it stands alongside The Hobbit and the Narnia books as an early popularizer of epic fantasy. That being said, it is definitely a series for children. Read some of the other titles before you try it, since it is missing the same level of depth.

Similar to his British contemporaries, Alexander was inspired by medieval folklore in the Prydain series — Welsh mythology, to be specific. These influences set Prydain apart from Tolkien’s Middle Earth and Lewis’ Narnia, by introducing a slew of fresh tropes into the genre. The land of Prydain is filled with magic pigs and enchanted cauldrons; witches and sorcerers; faeries and dwarves. Taran’s tale remains a prototypical fantasy narrative, similar in many ways to the story of Prince Arthur: (1) boy lives a backward rural life, (2) boy discovers greater destiny, (3) boy gradually achieves said destiny.

Describing the series in this way might make it seem dull, but Lloyd Alexander’s grace is the strength of his characters. Taran and his companions share the same failings that make us all human: they care about each other and they frequently mess up. The Chronicles of Prydain mainly address this process of growing up and learning to take your place in the world, but they also focus on the love story between Taran and the Princess Eilonwy. This is an adolescent romance that grows as the two embark on adventures together. Again, it feels Arthurian at times. Taran does not believe he is worthy of Eilonwy. The later books focus on his attempts to prove himself and discover for his parentage (in Taran Wanderer) so he can marry her. The series has dark moments, but Alexander keeps things light from start to finish. Read it if you’re looking for a less intense option, before tackling the Next Steps.

His Dark Materials, by Philip Pullman 

1. The Golden Compass (1995)
2. The Subtle Knife (1997)
3. The Amber Spyglass (2000)

Most people will have heard of Pullman’s His Dark Materials series; it stands out (after Harry Potter) as the most popular YA books of recent years. The second book was published the same year as Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, and the two share some obvious similarities: both are written by British authors, in very “British” settings, with children as the main characters. While the Potter series is definitely low fantasy (set in our world, with magical elements as an “add-on”), I consider His Dark Materials to be high fantasy. This is partly because of the many elements that make Lyra’s world distinct from our own: the steampunk vibe, the alternate history, the existence of magic, et cetera. and also because of the thematic complexity of Pullman’s narrative.

His Dark Materials

As an author, Pullman is outspokenly against age and gender labelling of books and it’s easy to see why when you read His Dark Materials. Although this is ostensibly a YA series, there were several moments when I was re-reading them and I thought to myself: “these books are supposed to be for kids?!” Pullman does not shy away from presenting adult material and his child-protagonists often face some fairly complex moral dilemmas. The story is about growing up and deals quite explicitly with the experience of puberty (in the later books), but it can also be read as an allegorical attack on Christian mores — the idea of “original sin” in particular. There is also a sustained commentary on the value of innocence, particularly in relation to the way adults treat children.

Why do they do these things to children, Pan? Do they all hate children so much that they want to tear them apart like this? Why do they do it?

I remember His Dark Materials being one of the most impactful series I read as a teenager, providing a first glimpse at the adult world (albeit through the eyes of children). Pullman’s multiverse was far more sophisticated than the fantasy realms I’d encountered before, filled with shape-shifting daemons, armoured bears, flying witches, soul-eating spectres, and malevolent angels. The use of magical objects, like Lyra’s alethiometer and Will’s subtle knife, provided the protagonists with unique ways of interacting with their surroundings, and the varied cast of characters remained consistently ambiguous. Certain moments in The Golden Compass — like when Lyra comes to understand her parents— were particularly hard-hitting as a young reader and have lost none of that intensity over time. There is something about Pullman’s story that appeals to the child in all of us, speaking to experiences that are timeless and universal. Best read under the blankets with a flashlight, long after your bedtime (a pillow fort is a good second option).

The Kingkiller Chronicles, by Patrick Rothfuss

1. The Name of the Wind (2007)
2. The Wise Man’s Fear (2011)
3. The Doors of Stone (working title)

It’s almost impossible to find anything bad to say about Patrick Rothfuss. When this guy burst onto the fantasy scene with The Name of the Wind, he was the name on everyone’s lips. Close to a decade later, with the final volume of his Kingkiller Chronicles looming on the horizon, not much has changed. Rothfuss is still the writer I recommend when people ask for good, contemporary fantasy — irrespective of whether they’re a genre aficionado or a newcomer. The simple reason for this is the quality of Rothfuss’ prose: the guy knows how to write. I said that LeGuin was the best writer on this list, but if anyone comes close it’s definitely Rothfuss.

The Kingkiller Chronicles

While Rothfuss doesn’t have the lyrical quality of LeGuin or the mythic panache of Tolkien, his writing feels polished in a way the others can’t quite match. Not just the dialogue and the descriptions either, but the narrative as well. Everything about the Kingkiller Chronicles is carefully crafted, from the fully-imagined characters to the detailed setting. It flows off the page like melted honey. That’s the real magic of Rothfuss: the ease with which you’re able to devour his stories. Nor do they feel underdeveloped — you can plough through these books in the space of a few days, then return to them for a second or third reading and still find enough to keep yourself enthralled. And I say this as someone who doesn’t usually re-read things…

Rothfuss is definitely the place to go if you’re less interested in the classics. His writing is modern and witty, avoiding the archaic turns of phrase that plague his predecessors, but without losing that traditional feeling of epic fantasy. Rothfuss also continues to hold a healthy reverence for the written word — like with LeGuin, part of the magic of his world lies in naming and the power a name holds over a thing.

Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts

Rothfuss is also a master of characterization. His protagonist, Kvothe, is one of the most fully flesh-and-blood individuals you’ll ever encounter on the written page (containing healthy amounts of Rothfuss himself, I suspect) and the secondary characters are equally well-developed. This is undoubtedly the key to the whole story, as an older version of Kvothe serves as the narrator of his youthful adventures. He remains keenly aware of the ridiculous, even in his moments of despair, and his story of love and adventure is an undeniable treat. Read it in the library (between lectures, if you’re still in school) or to reminisce about your college days.

Thanks for reading!