Am I alone in saying (writing, actually) that I have very mixed feelings about your books? They are an improbable wonder, no doubt, and you are a master craftsman, but I don't know if I can sustain the emotional investment. Each time I finish a new volume--I've just begun A Feast For Crows--I feel as though I've been traduced, betrayed, and left at the alter by my soulmate. Or even worse, I feel like Sisyphus rolling that damn rock up that damn hill. I couldn't stop if I wanted to.
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We make a fine team, you and I.
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Is there something he's not telling us?
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