Between Ink and Memory: A New Beginning in the North

Pieter Collier

After years of quiet work behind the scenes, Tolkien collector Pieter Collier shares the story behind his move to Norway — a journey of illness, silence, and renewal. From his new home in Trollbergvika overlooking the Skagerrak, he reflects on why he withdrew, why he returns, and what lies ahead for the Tolkien Library and the lifelong work that began more than three decades ago.

There are silences that do not mean absence, but endurance — and for several years, mine was such a silence

I was still here — collecting, researching, quietly helping other Tolkien enthusiasts and institutions — but the part of me that spoke publicly, that wrote and reflected, had fallen still. Life had changed its rhythm. My wife’s long illness required all my energy and focus. Days blurred into hospital visits and paperwork; months became measured not in pages read or books acquired, but in tests, waiting rooms, and small victories.

During those years, I watched the Tolkien world from a distance. New books appeared, exhibitions opened, anniversaries passed; others carried the torch, and I was grateful they did. I continued to curate collections for others and to protect my own, yet I no longer found the space to write or the strength to travel. What had once been my great joy — sharing discoveries and ideas — became something I could only look at from the far shore.

By the end of last year, we knew something had to change.

You cannot rebuild your spirit where it has broken too many times. We needed a place of quiet, a slower pace, air that could heal. And so, after long reflection, we decided to move north — to Norway.

Trollbergvika

On the first of September, we arrived in Trollbergvika, a small settlement across the fjord from Risør. It takes half an hour to drive around the water to reach the town, yet we see its white houses every day across the bay, floating in light. Our house stands high on the hillside, with a garden that falls away toward the sea. From the deck, we look out over the Skagerrak, that restless stretch of water between Norway and Denmark, where the horizon is both infinite and intimate.

It is astonishingly quiet here. Only wind, birds, and the occasional ship’s hum break the stillness. On clear days the air has a transparency that makes distance shimmer; on rainy ones, the landscape folds into itself until the world feels carved from mist. Sometimes I feel as though I live inside an Alan Lee painting — all silver light and quiet gradations of green and grey. On darker days, it feels like troll country, the sagas of Sigurd and Gudrún stirring just beyond the treeline. And sometimes, when the evening turns luminous and still, I think of the Grey Havens — that sense of farewell and peace combined.

This is where life begins again for us: among pine and sea, under a sky that never seems to stop changing.

Rebuilding a Library

Over the last thirty years, I have built what has become known as as the Tolkien Library — more than 6,500 books, letters, proofs, and artworks, collected piece by piece, story by story. The collection has always been both archive and autobiography, a record of my fascination with Tolkien and the friendships that grew around it.

When we decided to move, I knew that moving the library would be a pilgrimage in itself. Every book had to be catalogued, packed, and trusted to make the journey north. It was like lifting an entire lifetime onto a ship.

The books are now safe in a space I rent close to Risør — a quiet building that also holds my new office, where I work, write, and slowly begin to shape what the future might be. There, surrounded by shelves and silence, the Tolkien Library is being rebuilt. Crates open one by one, and the familiar spines emerge like old friends: signed volumes, rare proofs, private letters, artwork that has passed through other hands before mine.

It is slow work, but meaningful. Each unwrapped book feels like a small homecoming — a quiet reconnection with the life that waited patiently through the years of illness and uncertainty. When the last shelf is filled, I hope the space will not only be a library but also a place of meeting — a small museum for those who wish to visit by appointment, to see what thirty years of devotion can become.

Perhaps one day it may even find its way into the heart of Risør itself — a fitting harbour for Tolkien’s northern spirit.

A Haven for Healing

The move was not about geography alone. It was about finding space for recovery — for my wife, yes, but also for myself. Illness transforms everything. It reduces life to essentials and teaches you what you can and cannot carry. Norway, with its combination of stillness and strength, felt like the right place to begin again.

Here, surrounded by nature, I find a rhythm closer to what Tolkien might have called sub-creation: the slow, deliberate work of making, tending, and restoring. Each day begins in quiet and ends in light that feels almost moral in its honesty. You cannot pretend under such skies; you can only be grateful.

I am grateful — for the air that clears the mind, for the sea that humbles it, for the chance to work again, and for the sense that all of this still has meaning. It has not been easy. Moving countries, rebuilding a home, managing the bureaucracy of two systems — all of it has been a test of patience. But in that effort there is purpose. This, finally, feels like the right place.

A Return to Words

For years, I worked behind the scenes — brokering collections, advising other collectors, preserving and curating — but I wrote almost nothing. The silence had its reasons, but it also had its cost. Writing, I realise, is not something I do about Tolkien; it is the way I stay connected to him, and to the community that has grown around his work.

So this, now, is a return.

A return to reflection, to the quiet craft of sentences, to the exchange of thoughts that once defined my work on TolkienLibrary.

There are many stories waiting to be told — about manuscripts and marginalia, about signatures and proofs, about the long conversation that collectors and scholars have carried on for decades. And there are also stories of a more personal kind: what it means to dedicate a life to preserving another man’s imagination; what it means to see one’s own story mirrored in his.

Tolkien wrote that “we make by the law in which we’re made.” Perhaps that is true of collecting too. We gather, preserve, and share because creation itself demands company.

The Work Ahead

The road forward is both familiar and new. The collection is here; it will continue to grow and to serve as a bridge between scholarship and passion. I intend to host small exhibitions and gatherings — quiet occasions where people can see original materials, ask questions, and talk about what Tolkien still means in a changing world.

There are also unwritten books waiting on my desk, fragments of long-gestating projects that will now have space to breathe. Some explore Tolkien’s letters and their hidden contexts; others the philosophical threads that run through his mythology. And, perhaps most exciting, there is the dream of establishing a Tolkien Centre in Norway — a permanent space where visitors can encounter both the northern spirit that inspired Tolkien and the living community that continues his legacy.

It is only an idea for now, but one worth nurturing. Great things, Tolkien reminds us, often begin quietly.

Between Ink and Memory

When I look back, I see how each phase of this journey has been marked by both creation and loss.

To collect is to preserve what might otherwise vanish, but also to accept that time moves on. When I packed my books in Belgium, it felt like closing a door. When I unpack them here, it feels like opening one.

The Tolkien Library has always been more than a collection; it is a dialogue between what was and what will be. Every book carries a story not just of Tolkien, but of the people who have cared for his words, passed them along, and kept the flame alive.

Risør, with its white houses and quiet harbour, feels like the natural home for such a dialogue. It embodies the same combination of endurance and grace that runs through Tolkien’s legendarium — the northern courage that faces decline with dignity, the faith that beauty is never wasted.

When I stand outside at dusk, the air cool and the sea stretching into silver distance, I think of the Elves sailing west — not as a symbol of loss, but of gratitude. The world changes, but the light remains.

"I want to see mountains again, Gandalf — mountains!"

Bilbo’s words have followed me here. And from this northern shore, I finally understand them. Between ink and memory, there is always room to begin again.