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This is an excerpt from the last known recorded session of the Inklings, and may have been the last meeting with Professor Tolkien in attendance.
“I have enjoyed this delightful conversation with you, over so many Tuesdays. I regret that my great vice, this occupation with words and stories, may have been inflicted on all of you too heavily.”
Protests all ‘round.
“Not at all. Don’t be daft, man.”
“Tell us, Tollers, have we helped you reach any conclusions?”
“Only the happy one, aside from the importance of boon friendships. And that is this: it all goes on.”
“But where, isn’t that the question?”
“We should always remember, Ian, a tale is like any living thing, it is restless and has a will of its own.”
“I applaud your long effort. There are no, or at least should not be, any border police on stories.”
“But I think what Tollers is also telling us is that where he toils, on the frontier where making and remaking are as one, is an unruly place. All borders are places of magic. Like your half-mad little character, crossing even the doorstep threshold and setting foot on the road can sweep one away into far lands under strange moons.”
“Well, enough of all this. Edith and I are moving to a place on the coast. I shall hear the long clash of waves and rock, and the sea-birds repeating sounds like the waking cries of a newborn world.”
“And your secret gate?”
“That I have indeed passed through. Many times. Unlike Rhygoal, the Loud-Grating, or Utgard, the Unbreachable, it is a simple quaint, roundish door, decorated with tree branches. It bears no name, but be assured—it is there. It is time for others to find their own gates.”