Blast George Martin, or Why Am I So Impressionable???
A longish hate post, written in English so that it would be easy to ignore (for everyone who doesn't like a ton of spite to read before sleep).
I've now almost gotten to the middle of third book, A Storm Of Swords, and am more turning the pages than reading. The plot is too stretched out and slow, and telling it through the eyes of a dozen characters doesn't make it more lively. Moreover, in his struggle for realism as opposed to idealism Martin has taken a great care that nowhere on his pages, whenever the reader stops for a moment, he won't face such a stupid thing as happy ending. So each person who is even remotely nice or has anything good to say for themselves turns out to be too bloody stupid, too bloody unbendingly honest or impeded by some half-miraculous and unnatural causes to do anything to the good. Is it like that in real life? Some good things do happen, Mr. Martin, if only rarely and to establish the rule by exception. Oh, all right, perhaps we should wait for the seventh book and see if one fortunate person gets some little happiness sitting in the frozen ruins of the Westeros in the end of the world. Or two persons - I'm sorry, am I being unforgivably romantic?
The first book was interesting, granted. But nevertheless it wasn't well thought out in the way of composition - there was no notable climax nor was the story rounded off even for one of the storylines. And with each new one, the plot grows more glutinous and slow, and frequent sudden ricochets aren't going to save it.
Being in the middle of the third, I find that the only character for whom I can still feel in the least concerned is Tyrion Lannister, and that is perhaps because he is so close a counterpart to Miles Vorkosigan. Or is there only one way a crippled dwarf of high birth can behave to win his way into a book? Brains. Tactics. Abilities to pick right people, know them, hold and protect them... Sufficiently elastic notion of honour when it is necessary - but still some notion, at least. Relations with his father not so good and, in fact, quite the opposite - but then, the father himself is of somewhat different stuff than Aral Vorkosigan. (note that the first Miles book appeared ten years before the first of A Song Of Ice And Fire - I'm not suggesting plagiarism, but some influence there could have been)
The other characters have grown uninteresting partly through the mutton-headed way Martin will have them behave when there are a great lot of other things to do, and partly from weariness of repetition. Their personalities are well established, and when they change, they do it in a way still true of their inner essence - but the same words and situations are too often used to describe the character. One finds that not only can one guess what will a hero do in such and such situation - it is seen that the situation itself is alike to something told before.
Anyone who knows me cannot doubt it that for me a lot of blood, cruelty and sex will sooner aggravate other offences than mitigate them. This might be to answer for frequent fits of revulsion and fear - what will the author get to next? Perhaps I'm too impressionable to read books like these, and they are in fact made to be forgot the instant they are closed with a snap?
Oh, well, and I've been told by various friends and just nice people that the series was quite a smashing hit and deserved it. Which of course makes my disliking it twice as bad, because I've had expectations. I've read also the reviews in the nets and found that most place Martin at the top of genre. He can have it. I never read such a lot of fantasy as to be a competent judge, but I know quite well that most of the genre is indeed stupid, straightforward and plain paperback trash. Is it a great praise to be cherished? Perhaps only to the author who cannot complete his series for 15 years and is getting slower and slower in his output? He has no doubt earned his living and a half by now.
I shall perhaps complete the third book in another week half-sleeping in the metro on my way to work, and don't know if I'm going to bother with the fourth - a little bird tells me there is going to be no Tyrion in it. All to the good - I should be sorry to lose all interest in him as well.
I've now almost gotten to the middle of third book, A Storm Of Swords, and am more turning the pages than reading. The plot is too stretched out and slow, and telling it through the eyes of a dozen characters doesn't make it more lively. Moreover, in his struggle for realism as opposed to idealism Martin has taken a great care that nowhere on his pages, whenever the reader stops for a moment, he won't face such a stupid thing as happy ending. So each person who is even remotely nice or has anything good to say for themselves turns out to be too bloody stupid, too bloody unbendingly honest or impeded by some half-miraculous and unnatural causes to do anything to the good. Is it like that in real life? Some good things do happen, Mr. Martin, if only rarely and to establish the rule by exception. Oh, all right, perhaps we should wait for the seventh book and see if one fortunate person gets some little happiness sitting in the frozen ruins of the Westeros in the end of the world. Or two persons - I'm sorry, am I being unforgivably romantic?
The first book was interesting, granted. But nevertheless it wasn't well thought out in the way of composition - there was no notable climax nor was the story rounded off even for one of the storylines. And with each new one, the plot grows more glutinous and slow, and frequent sudden ricochets aren't going to save it.
Being in the middle of the third, I find that the only character for whom I can still feel in the least concerned is Tyrion Lannister, and that is perhaps because he is so close a counterpart to Miles Vorkosigan. Or is there only one way a crippled dwarf of high birth can behave to win his way into a book? Brains. Tactics. Abilities to pick right people, know them, hold and protect them... Sufficiently elastic notion of honour when it is necessary - but still some notion, at least. Relations with his father not so good and, in fact, quite the opposite - but then, the father himself is of somewhat different stuff than Aral Vorkosigan. (note that the first Miles book appeared ten years before the first of A Song Of Ice And Fire - I'm not suggesting plagiarism, but some influence there could have been)
The other characters have grown uninteresting partly through the mutton-headed way Martin will have them behave when there are a great lot of other things to do, and partly from weariness of repetition. Their personalities are well established, and when they change, they do it in a way still true of their inner essence - but the same words and situations are too often used to describe the character. One finds that not only can one guess what will a hero do in such and such situation - it is seen that the situation itself is alike to something told before.
Anyone who knows me cannot doubt it that for me a lot of blood, cruelty and sex will sooner aggravate other offences than mitigate them. This might be to answer for frequent fits of revulsion and fear - what will the author get to next? Perhaps I'm too impressionable to read books like these, and they are in fact made to be forgot the instant they are closed with a snap?
Oh, well, and I've been told by various friends and just nice people that the series was quite a smashing hit and deserved it. Which of course makes my disliking it twice as bad, because I've had expectations. I've read also the reviews in the nets and found that most place Martin at the top of genre. He can have it. I never read such a lot of fantasy as to be a competent judge, but I know quite well that most of the genre is indeed stupid, straightforward and plain paperback trash. Is it a great praise to be cherished? Perhaps only to the author who cannot complete his series for 15 years and is getting slower and slower in his output? He has no doubt earned his living and a half by now.
I shall perhaps complete the third book in another week half-sleeping in the metro on my way to work, and don't know if I'm going to bother with the fourth - a little bird tells me there is going to be no Tyrion in it. All to the good - I should be sorry to lose all interest in him as well.