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THE EMBITTERED READER
, August 24, 2011
This review is from: A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire) (Hardcover)
(why yes, I am mocking GRRM's stylistic excess as part of this review)
He broke his fast with boiled neeps, and shivering stew, washed down with a flagon of Dornish ale. The grease from stewed salt pork clung to his gristly beard as he donned a slashed velvet doublet of purple satin, emblazoned with the crest of Ser Eddard Bauer. Over his smallclothes, he wore black pantaloons. He clambered into his Honda and began the short journey west, bearing northwards along the interstate. He turned left, edging his way past opposing traffic. If I look back, I am lost.
His office was a dull brown keep that sat astride the Crown Road. His desk was hidden behind a soundproofed beige cubicle and was lined with a faux wood finish. Reek, reek, it rhymes with teak.
He had finished A Dance with Dragons not a noonsday before and wondered if in truth he had finished the entire series. George R. R. Martin is so constipated from the fawnings of his lickspittles and self-indulgent side stories that he's not like to drop another turd of a novel anytime soon, if the last decade has told it true, he thought to himself.
He smirked at his own witticism. "It is known" he said aloud to himself.
To tell it true, he had enjoyed several parts of the novel. Jon Snow's first chapter was strong, as were the Bran and Davos chapters. He'd not expected that. Many of the early story arcs had glistened wetly with promise but of these Martin had written little and less as the book wore on. Of Dany's aimless navel-gazing, there'd been much and more. Asha and Victarion vied for the distinction of the most pointless Greyjoy POV. Ariane Martell had twisted her teats for naught, for her brother Quentyn's chapters proved to be as useless as nipples on a breastplate. Gods be good, he thought, the fat man teased us with Feast's Dorne chapters for.... this?
And Jaime... that had been the cruelest jape of all. Best that Martin had left out his sole chapter. Though, given the masturbatory excess of Dance's prose, Martin could have learned a thing or two from a man who'd had to make do without his sword hand.
The epilogue was a satisfying end to an unsavory meal, but even the most succulent lemoncake doesn't salvage a bland and unfilling meal of gruel. In truth, it should've been left in A Feast for Crows, along with Cersei's chapters. At least then at least one of the novels from the last ten years would've amounted to more than a mummer's farce.
He set down his copy of A Dance with Dragons with an unsatisfying thud. Words are wind, he mused. Speaking of which... He raised a leg and broke his word. It smelt of stale bacon grease and mashed neeps.
By then, his bladder was full to bursting from the morning's coffee, so he headed to the latrine before he pissed his smallclothes. Reek, reek, it rhymes with leak. Along the way, he passed the receptionist from the adjoining office. She was a pretty brown-haired thing, a woman of about four-and-twenty, fully flowered.
"Where do whores go?", he asked her.
She slapped him.
He entered the men's bathroom and undid his breeches. The urinals were crofted from gleaming white porcelain and bore the seal of American Standard. Whilst it received his golden stream of the morning's piss, he contemplated how this was a metaphor for how Ser Martin had raised the leg and done the same to the continuity of A Song of Ice and Fire and the first three books.
He angrily composed an e-mail to Martin's editor whilst zipping up his breeches. He was only a man grown, unskilled in the ways of editing, but such was his wroth.
You know nothing, Anne Groell...
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