“I experienced car creepery at thirteen. I was walking home from middle school past a place called the World’s Largest Aquarium – which, legally, I don’t know how they could call it that, because it was obviously an average-sized aquarium. Maybe I should start referring to myself as the World’s Tallest Man and see how that goes? Anyway, I was walking home from school and I was wearing a dress. A dude drove by and yelled, “Nice tits.” Embarrassed and enraged, I screamed after him, “Suck my dick.” Sure, it didn’t make any sense, but at least I didn’t hold in my anger.”
Monthly Archives: January 2013
*A NOTE ABOUT SPOILERS: This review does not contain spoilers for A Feast for Crows. HOWEVER, it does contain spoilers for the previous installment (A Storm of Swords). Proceed with caution. Also, George RR Martin did not actually write this. Because duh.
Hey everyone, George RR Martin here. I thought I’d take some time off from planning my intricate and complex storylines (spoiler alert: everyone has sex with everyone and then kills each other) to introduce A Feast for Crows, the long-awaited fourth installment in my epic fantasy series! You guys are in for a treat, this one is awesome.
*A NOTE ABOUT SPOILERS: While this review doesn’t have any spoilers for A Storm of Swords, it does include spoilers for the previous book, A Clash of Kings. If you haven’t read that one yet, proceed with caution.
PREVIOUSLY, ON A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE: A ton of dudes came up out of the woodwork to fight over a stupid crown, lots of people died, lots of people killed lots of people, there was consensual sex and a lot more rape, some hookers and mercenaries, and life continued to be utterly terrible for anyone with the last name Stark. Also there are fucking dragons and ice-zombie-monsters, don’t forget about those! It only gets more fun from here, boys and girls.
A good, very thorough biography of a fascinating woman – Foreman is lucky to have had access to hundreds of letters written by Georgiana and her colleagues, so we get to see the historical figures telling their stories in their own words (something I’m not used to, being more fond of Tudor-era history). Also interesting was how many of Georgiana’s letters don’t survive, and why. She had some Victorian descendants who, due to being Victorian, took it upon themselves to clean up their ancestor’s image by censoring or even destroying any letters that openly discussed Georgiana’s numerous affairs. Thanks a lot, prudes.
“Kill your darlings” is a popular piece of advice given in creative writing classes – it’s the concept that you shouldn’t ever be afraid to take drastic and destructive action on your precious baby of a novel in order to move the plot forward or improve the story. George RR Martin should be held up as the gold standard of this rule, since his books might as well come labeled with a giant “Don’t Get Too Attached” warning. It isn’t just major and beloved characters (Eddard Stark, you will be avenged!) that get killed off in the space of a sentence; entire plots that have been building slowly for hundreds of pages are laid to waste with a single action so a new clusterfuck can get started.
(reviewer’s disclaimer: as I write this, I’ve had two cocktails and three beers in the past three hours, so while this will not be strictly a Drunk Review, it will definitely be a Tipsy Review. To the extent that I’ve had to re-type “review” twice because I can’t seem to spell it right. Viewer discretion is advised)
My first exposure to this fantasy series was in high school when I was talking to a friend about books and she said, “Have you read the Song of Ice and Fire series? It’s amazing.” I had never heard about it, and asked for more information. What followed was a rambling, ten-minute explanation of the various regions and families at play in George RR Martin’s fantasy epic, and I left the discussion wondering how anyone could find such a drawn-out, complicated story interesting.
“Please believe that I am falling apart.
I am not speaking metaphorically; nor is this the opening gambit of some melodramatic, riddling, grubby appeal for pity. I mean quite simply that I have begun to crack all over like an old jug – that my poor body, singular, unlovely, buffeted by too much history, subjected to drainage above and drainage below, mutilated by doors, brained by spittoons, has started coming apart at the seams. In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of acceleration. I ask you only to accept (as I have accepted) that I shall eventually crumble into (approximately) six hundred and thirty million particles of anonymous, and necessarily oblivious, dust. That is why I have resolved to confide in paper, before I forget. (We are a nation of forgetters.)”