Once upon a time, there was a brilliant, wonderful book written by an intelligent, creative man. No, there were several, brilliant, wonderful books written by this man. Three of these were the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and its prequel The Hobbit, two were The Book of Lost Tales, and one book to rule them all, one book to find them, one book to take the tales and in the darkness bind them.
This book was named the Simarillion. It wasn’t even finished when he died, but his son (Christopher Tokien) finished it for him. That’s how awesome Tolkien was. He continued to publish another book after his demise. I suppose genius can’t be confined by mortal laws.
Perhaps, Shrimplet, you are thinking, ‘Come on, he wasn’t THAT awesome!’
“Have you ever invented a consistent mythology, a consistent language, a consistent culture, a consistent map and world, and characters that are consistently awesome? No? Of course not. Because only J.R.R Tolkien (and, sometimes, Christopher Tolkien) has ever succeeded in doing so. So be quiet and listen to me praise a genius.” I say, again showing my proficiency at mind reading.
You shut your cakehole and decide to go read The Hobbit.