A Song of Ice and Fire

It's almost shocking how little modern, populist literature I read nowadays. Almost invariably this gives me pleasure; I am not a plebe in a coffee shop who thinks he's sophisticated for reading Chomsky and Vonnegut with the New York Times on the side. I hate the term 'sophisticated' anyway, having connotations of Subway lurking in my subconscious. But every now and then I hear of a book which captures my attention. A Game of Thrones caught my eye so on impulse I bought it from the bookstore.

My qualms are minor; atheists really shouldn't write about religion for their work is unconvincing, and Martin's style of "I'll-kill-off-major-characters-to-make-you-worried-about-the-ones-that-really matter" wearies the soul. I doubt Martin would be careless enough to kill Jon or Arya (my personal favorite) merely to flout the system. If he does, I shan't care for the series anymore, nor do I find his method to work for me; I merely become angry when the Young Wolf and his mother dies, and the enemy - and there is an enemy, despite what popular criticism would say - prevails.

But these are minor qualms. The writing is vigorous, gritty, and often dark, sometimes oppressively so. Occasionally I wish there were not quite so much graphic sex depicted, but few writers have written so evocatively of the North. The battles of the Wall, the freezing isolation, the perennial darkness; the honor, the courage of the Stark family, who could not love such things?

I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.