White Tape

I've just come off finishing the absolutely massive A Game of Thrones, a book which I recommend to anyone who enjoys the English language, but also caution that the damn thing is 807 pages long and has the decency to end in a cliffhanger, possibly because the author was told he couldn't have any more paper in the damn thing or else it'd fall apart in shipping.

I read that last paragraph again and I realize I called it 'the damn thing' twice when the book is really quite lovely. The first of seven books, A Game of Thrones tells the story of House Stark of the North, who live in perpetual winter and the way their family is drawn into conflict against the King of the Seven Kingdoms and the antagonistic House Lannister, whose eldest daughter lies Queen of the realm. The book reminds me very much of Dune in terms of plot depth and personal drive, but there are two key differences for me:

Dune was excellent up until the part where Atreides is betrayed and the protagonist left for dead in the desert. After that, bleh. Huge sagging middle bit. I had to struggle to get through most of it. Don't get me wrong, Bene Gesserit witches rule, and Paul is no slouch himself but I honestly had to slog through. Not so with Game of Thrones, and this brings me to the 2nd difference:

The story is told from the perspective of nine (!!!!) different characters and never gets stale; the blood tingled in my spine after several of the really awesome bits. Not everything is surface value in this book, even the twisted Lannisters hold honor and pride, and the valiant heroes often rub away to reveal something else entirely. Through it you are guessing and leaping on every page, and the man can really write, even if I suspect he's got a thing for young girls.

I hadn't finished the book before, even though it's been in my possession for nearly a month because I was afraid that reading it would spoil my novel. I was right. It has. I look at the misshapen thing I tinkered out and I want to cry in dismay. Then I want to print it all out so I can burn it, and throw it and myself into the rainy night, shouting cries of anguish and grief.

The other reason I hadn't finished it before now is mentioned in the first paragraph: IT'S FUCKING HUGE.

In other news: my exam went well, I finished the paper, which is an achievement, believe you me.

p.s. A very huge thanks to Al for enriching my life by lending me this book. I can only hope to repay the kindness by slicing small parts of my internal organs into a jar and growing a fruit tree from the parts, then picking the ripened product and making from it the best damn salad ever created by human hands, but unfortunately I'm crap at cooking, so 'thanks' will have to suffice.