Encontrei esse interessantíssimo post no site Changing the Times. Como seria O Senhor dos Anéis reescrito por autores alternativos?
Meus destaques vão para as seguintes versões:
Lord of the Rings, by Ian Fleming
Aragorn placed his hand on the cool, ivory hilt of his 6.38 Anduril sword, half-holding it in as casual manner as possible. His eyes swept the room of the Prancing Pony, eyeing up the potential threats. He took out his pipe, made from the warmed heartwood of a mature oak. In the palm of his left hand, he unwrapped his leather tobacco pouch filled, as he preferred, with Gondorian Silk Cut. Aragorn preferred it to the harsher, stronger Numenorian blend…
Lord of the Rings, by Oscar Wilde
“He bested me in a riddle contest.”
“A riddle contest?”
“It was so. And he cheated.”
“To cheat in a riddle contest is a riddle in itself, and is therefore not cheating, but just another riddle.”
“He cheated and asked me what he had in his pockets.”
“He picked and pocketed a pretty prize, performing perfidious behaviour. How very noble, so like our own Lords and Masters”….
Lord of the Rings, by Raymond Chandler (a melhor de todas, na minha opinião)
“Frodo Baggins?” said the old man in the doorway, rain dripping from his oversized hat with all the ease of a dwarf burrowing after gold.
“That’s the name on the door. Guess I’m gullible enough to believe what it says about me.”
The old man came in a dripped water on the earth floor. Added a touch of class, so I didn’t complain.
“Frodo, you’ve got a problem.”
“I pay my taxes, and I’m clean with the Rangers. What’s my problem?”
“Bilbo shafted you with that heirloom. Gold ring? Gold ringer, more like.”
“A dud, huh. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“If it was a dud, you wouldn’t have a problem. Your problem is that this little heirloom has a history, a history with a pearl-handled stiletto in the back. It goes back all the way through the biggest string of mugs you find as wallpaper on Minas Tirith’s finest. Goes all the way back to Night-Time Sauron…..”
Lord of the Rings, by George Lucas
“Did you ever wonder who your father was, Frodo?”
“Uncle Bilbo was my father, Obi Gan Dalf.”
“Your Uncle is a fine man, but he is not your father. Your father was a fine warrior and a great captain, strong in the Force. He was called Sarumann the Wise, and he was a good friend.”
“Was? Is he dead?”
“He is no more. It is your destiny to avenge his death, young Baggins.”
Lord of the Rings, by James Joyce
Old man willow, whistling like a tea pot, shining like a star, oh so brilliant in the dreaming and smoke and by the river, Goldberry’s river, dancing like a vision, Bombadil, Bombadil, Bombadillo. Rock of ages, youg and ageless, naked before my eyes like Rivendell Rock, sweet and hard and trusting….
The Lord of the Rings, by Ernest Hemingway
Frodo Baggins looked at the ring. The ring was round. It was a good ring. The hole at the heart of the ring was also round. The hole was clean and pure. The hole at the heart of the ring had an emptiness in it that made Frodo Baggins remember the big skies of the Shire when his father had taken him out and taught him to tear the heads off the small, furred things that walked there, even though he hated blood in those days and the stink of the blood was always part of the emptiness for him then and ever after.
Frodo Baggins could put the ring on his finger now. The stink of the blood and the hole and the emptiness could never leave him now. Frodo Baggins looked at the ash-heap slopes of Mordor and remembered the Cuban orc who had kept the ash on his cigar all the way to the end. The orc just drew on the cigar and smoked the cigar calmly and kept the ash in a long gray finger, a hard finger, right to the moment that the Rangers beat hit to death with clubs. He was mucho orco, the Cuban.
Frodo Baggins looked at the ring and the hole and smelled the sulfur smell that came from the vent in the mountain. There were scorched black bushes round the vent. The vent was like the cleft of the old whore at the Prancing Pony on the night that the Black Riders came. Frodo Baggins reached in his pouch and took out the flask of good grappa there and filled his mouth and swallowed the grappa. She was mucha puta, the old whore.
Frodo Baggins could spit again so he spat hard, once. He took the ring and threw it into the vent.
The earth moved.