Fat Ninja

It goes without saying that I’m a big reader. I wouldn’t be much of an English Major if I didn’t enjoy a good book. As far back as I can remember, I’ve almost always had a book in which to bury my nose. I remember the raised eyebrows that this unusual habit of mine would attract in highschool. In fact, I guess that, without knowing it, I had earned a bit of a reputation in highschool on account of my affection for literature. At try-outs for the Junior-Varsity football team, I distinctly remember a fellow prospect looking at me in marked amazement. After finally regaining his composure, he asked, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you, like, a bookworm?” I guess I’d never really thought of myself in those terms. I’d never felt abashed about enjoying a good read, and, even in the wake of his remarks, I never really bothered about the negative connotations that seemed to be the albatross of the literary.

Reading remains a very important outlet for me. In truth, however, I owe my love of reading to one genre in particular. Fantasy fiction is what truly set me down the path to becoming an English Major, if you ask me. Oh, sure, I’ve loved writing poetry and, to a lesser extent, prose for many years, but this love of words really sprung from reading about the champions of Krynn in Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman’s Chronicles saga of Dragonlance, or R.A. Salvatore’s Drizzt Do’Urden and the heroes of the Icewind Dale. I spent much of my youth engrossed in fantastical worlds of dragons and magic, readily giving myself over to the escapism that they offered.

In spite of my love of the genre, as I grew older I found that the writing in many of the books that I used to adore just wasn’t keeping pace with my own growth and development as a person. The writing style simply paled in comparison to Scott’s Ivanhoe, or Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I found that I needed to have my fantasies grounded in a bit of realism and maturity. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings proved one of few examples of the potential offered by the genre, and it distressed me that it was several decades old. I attempted to read Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, but soon grew bored with the drawn out narrative and begrudged the thought of having to read nearly a dozen books to get any sense of closure.

It was while reading Jordan’s book, The Great Hunt, that a friend, Ozzy, approached me about reading George R.R. Martin’s series, A Song of Ice & Fire. He assured me that it was, in his opinion, the best fantasy series out there. Unfortunately, given my waning interest in the genre I once adored, I stalled. I made excuses and started reading other books just so that I could hold off Ozzy’s badgerings. Lucky for me, Ozzy never relented. Instead, he actually escalated his petitions, and I soon found that not only was he IMing me about the books, but he’d reference them in nearly every thread on the forums we’d frequent. Then came his coup de grace. He linked me to the prologue of the first book as found on Amazon.

It was in the reading of the first pages of Martin’s A Game of Thrones that I began to rediscover my love of fantasy fiction. Here was an author that made good on all of the promises made to me by the authors I loved in my youth. Here was a compelling telling of the whimsical that was so firmly grounded that it once more made a believer out of me. Shortly after reading the prologue, I asked Laura to pick up A Game of Thrones at our local library.

Despite my piqued curiosity, I proceeded with caution. With the host of other distractions that pine for my free time, I’ve seldom made as much time for reading as I used to. Well, A Game of Thrones found me at an opportune time, stumbling upon me while my 360 was in for repairs. Before long, I was hooked. Which brings me to the review portion of this entry.

A Game of Thrones is what some call a fantistorical. Personally, I had never really heard the term. I’ve always taken the worlds of fantasy at face value. I’ve never asked for anything beyond a glancing pretext to set the stage for a given story, but having read Martin’s work, I’ve established a new standard for what defines compelling fantasy fiction. In just a few short weeks Martin has vaulted himself to the top of my list for all-time favorite fantasy authors for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he has a way of infusing his story with so much depth and detail that it becomes real. From start to finish there were countless moments that found me reminding myself that what I was reading was pure fiction simply on account of the richness of the story’s backdrop. Martin’s love of history insinuates itself beautifully into A Game of Thrones, making the realms of the Seven Kingdoms tangible, and firmly cementing the narrative in a millenia of history.

Artist Mark Evans’ interpretation of Jon Snow, one of our story’s many heroes

Martin’s meticulous attention to even the most minute of details is not lavished solely on establishing the backdrop for his story. It also carries over into his colorful and carefully sculpted characters. Each player in A Game of Thrones is painted in such vivid detail that even some of the most minor of characters stand out amidst a myriad cast of hundreds. But his leading characters are so utterly unforgettable that they’ve easily supplanted other heroes of my imagination. Each one is distinct and, above all believable. I don’t think I’ve ever had characters generate emotional responses from me in quite the way that Martin’s do. His villains are sinister, yet plausible, while his heroes are valiant, yet mortal. There is a human fallibility to even the most noble of his characters that we can identify with. Even in those characters whom we love, we cannot help but encounter folly and error.

Ultimately, though, no matter how elaborate the backdrop and how compelling the players, A Game of Thrones would be nothing if it had no tale of its own to tell. Without resorting to hyperbole, I can tell you that in the penning of A Game of Thrones, Martin has created what is the best story I’ve read to date. Using a transitioning point of view that leap frogs between the key characters, Martin manages to maintain tension and suspense while offering a cohesive narrative that perceives the twisting plots and sub-plots from different vantages that are as entirely unique as the characters.

Yet, even with the enriching details and elaborate exposition, A Game of Thrones seldom breaks from the thundering gallop of its pacing. As I read it I found that page upon crucial page hurtled by in my mad charge to see where Martin was taking me. I cannot recommend this book enough, and like my friend Ozzy before me, I will hound every person I know to read this brilliant series.

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