First, I’m going to apologise for not posting lately – I’ve been completely swamped with school and work. Not that my two(ish) readers seem to care.
Moving along.
I was in class the other day, my copy of A Clash of Kings (by the author who looks like a tugboat capatin, George RR Martin) sitting on the desk before me. This guy – let’s call him ‘Dave’ – sits down next to me, reaches over, picks up the books, snorts, and puts it back down.
Now, before I get into the story, let’s tell you about ‘Dave’: he’s a bit of a book snob. He regards anything written after 1930 to be ‘popular tripe’, he talks like Fraiser Crane, and nobody ever wants to do group work with him because all he does is use big words to try to impress everybody. He is, in short, a bit of a pompous turd.
“What’s your deal?” I asked.
“Oh. It’s…the size of the book, that’s all.”
“The size..?”
“I don’t tend to trust books of that…size. It’s a quality thing. Books of that size tend to be too…shallow. Popular, if you will, and not very good.”
Well colour me baffled. For like, three seconds. Then it hit me: my little 7x4x2 copy of some of Mr. Martin’s finest was being lumped in with the likes of Nora Roberts (who, it seems, writes a book every time she takes a shit). I got a little steamed.
“A quality thing? Dave, this is some of the most resplendent shit I’ve ever read. This is like Tolkien started doing coke and fought off a bear in the woods and won and then decided to write Lord of the Rings, only this has direwolves and war and incest and dragons. Get your shit checked, Dave, you fucking asshole.”
Okay, so the ‘fucking asshole’ part isn’t true, but the rest of it is. I seriously hope boat captain Martin doesn’t kick it before he finishes the series.
This Name Was Taken 