Rapio, Rapere, Raptus Sum: Sexual Violence, Natural Selection, and A Song of Ice and Fire (by Bethany)

Editorial_cartoon_depicting_Charles_Darwin_as_an_ape_(1871)

I’ve spent a good chunk of my time these last few months avoiding articles about Game of Thrones on social media. Every Monday morning while Season 5 was still airing, my Facebook feed overflowed with outrage about the violence and depravity in the previous evening’s episode, but I’ve been determined to imbibe this series – on the page and on screen – at my own pace. One Washington Post article that was difficult (though possible) to resist was titled “Game of Thrones Has Always Been a Show about Rape.” The article is here, though I still haven’t read it. About rape? I wondered. I was somewhere near the end of book 1 when I saw this headline. Both the novels and the series contain rape, sure, but when does a show that contains rape become a show about rape? I was skeptical.

Some time has passed. I’ve finished A Storm of Swords and have watched eight of ten episodes of Season 3 of the series, and I think I get it. It helps that A Storm of Swords contains a catchy song called “The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” which is a song about rape, and that the TV series, which does an excellent job of distilling each book into ten distinct episodes, each organized around a central theme (Is this series taught in film schools as a model of adaptation? If not, it should be), and that “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” was used as the title of an episode. I still don’t think it’s entirely correct to say that Game of Thrones is “about rape,” but I do think that rape is an integral component of another process that this series is about.

Am I really going to say this on the internet? You’re going to think I’m nuts. But here goes: I think the Song of Ice and Fire series is about natural selection.

Sex (and by this I mean heterosexual coupling, consensual or otherwise) is the engine that drives evolution. Much of the behavior of living things (ourselves included, with a few caveats) is meant to make sure that organisms reproduce before they die. In most mammals, reproduction is driven by instinct, is not especially pleasurable, and resembles the act that – when humans do it – we call rape. This element of force in sex is essential to natural selection. An individual cow may not enjoy being overpowered by a bull and impregnated with his semen, but her species wants it. When female mammals are forcibly impregnated by the males of their species – who presumably have fought off any number of other males intent on the female in question – the genes of the stronger, more aggressive male are passed along to the next generation. Similarly, robust females are more likely then weaker specimens to survive the trauma of pregnancy and birth and will tend to produce more offspring than their more delicate counterparts will.

Human beings, of course, have changed the game. The tiny adjustments that natural selection has made to our physiology over the millennia have given us the tools and brainpower we need to turn sex into something other than a blind, instinctive process. We* can manipulate our own reproduction more adeptly than any other species, using technology as basic as the condom and as complex as in-vitro fertilization, and we expect sex to be both consensual and pleasurable for both parties. While sexual feelings are as innate as ever, what was once a set of instincts on how to reproduce is now superseded by endless books on the subject, not to mention sex ed curricula in schools, religious prescriptions and proscriptions, stores full of oddly-shaped rubber gadgets, and entire Twitter feeds rising up in outrage against Todd Akin. And then there’s the rest of the internet. Don’t get me started on the rest of the internet.

*Note: by “we” I mean the infinitesimally tiny subset of human beings that resemble those with whom I typically interact, either in person or intellectually via the books and articles I read. There’s a certain elitism to the point I’m making here, and I don’t mind owning it: by “we,” assume that I mean “readers of the Atlantic Monthly.”

A Song of Ice and Fire is set in a fantasy world that melds medieval Europe with some kind of weird Jungian nightmare about the tension between “self” and “other.” On the one hand, the struggle for power among the five competing monarchs (fewer than five if you discount the ones who have died as of the end of A Storm of Swords, more than five if you count Mance Rayder and Balon Greyjoy) resembles medieval Europe in general and the history of the Plantagenet kings on England specifically (when I was reading A Game of Thrones, I spent a good deal of time trying to figure out which character was supposed to be Richard III. Then I gave up. They’re all Richard III). The downward pressure upon Westeros by the “wildlings” and “Others” resembles medieval England’s anxiety at the incursions of the Welsh, but it also resembles the barbarians at the gates of Rome, the Mongol invasions that led to the building of the Great Wall of China, and the legions of diseased, murderous psychopaths that Donald Trump and his ilk seem to think are pressing constantly against our own southern border. Most human communities have been prone to these sorts of anxieties. The walled, fortified city seems part of the universal subconscious.

The word “rape” comes from the Latin verb referenced in this essay’s title – rapio, rapere, rapui, raptus sum, which means “to seize.” Elsewhere in our language, this root is found in raptor (both bird and dinosaur, named after their aggressive hunting practices), rapt, rapacious, and rapture (in both the capital-R fundamentalist Christian sense or in the sense that one is seized by passionate emotion). For all but the tiniest crumb of human history, sex (and its euphemism: marriage) has been an act of physical seizure (consider the standard portrayal of prehistoric sex: the man clubbing a woman over the head and dragging her off to his cave) and/or of nonviolent-but-nevertheless-forceful seizure (think of all the marriages that have been the result of negotiations among sets of parents, back-alley dealings by matchmakers, the elitism and xenophobia of European monarchs (including Queen Victoria, whose life extended into the twentieth century), and outright silliness by semi-mythical figures like Laban and Saul in the Old Testament. The Greek gods deserve a paragraph all their own on this topic, and even Shakespeare seems to recognize this central anxiety on the subject of marriage: think of all the random – and sometimes even punitive – marriages that take place at the supposedly-happy endings of many of his comedies.

In A Song of Ice and Fire, rape is treated with yawns of ennui. George R.R. Martin likes to bury rape in the middle of lengthy catalogues, as in this example from A Storm of Swords, in which Grenn is speaking of Sam Tarly: “We left him… I shook him and screamed at him, even slapped his face. Giant tried to drag him to his feet, but he was too heavy. Remember in training how he’d curl up on the ground and lie there whimpering? At Craster’s he wouldn’t even whimper. Dirk and Ollo were tearing up the walls looking for food, Garth and Garth were fighting, some of the others were raping Craster’s wives. Dolorous Edd figured Dirk’s bunch would kill all the loyal men to keep us from telling what they’d done, and they had us two to one. We left Sam with the Old Bear. He wouldn’t move, Jon” (667). Elsewhere, rape is treated with sarcasm, as when, during the Battle of the Blackwater in A Clash of Kings, when the women of King’s Landing are waiting out the battle in a secured part of the castle, Sansa asks Cersei Lannister what will happen if Joffrey’s forces lose the battle. “Most of my guests are in for a bit of rape,” Cersei replies. “And you should never rule out mutilation, torture, and murder at times like these” (846).

This trivialization of rape becomes even more fascinating alongside the fact that this series is an enormously popular cultural phenomenon in a time and place where we (remember my definition of “we,” above) have exactly zero tolerance for rape or sexual assault of any kind. Rape has been a topic of discussion in the last several presidential elections – as a subset of a larger debate about abortion, yes, but have you ever thought about how strange this topic is as part of a larger political discourse? I can’t say for sure, but as far as I recall I myself learned what the word rape meant during the whole Willie Horton scandal (“If your wife Kitty were raped and murdered…”) when George H.W. Bush and Michael Dukakis were running for president in 1988. I was twelve. Is it possible to make it to twelve today and not know the word rape? Maybe, but it seems unlikely.

My theory is that, as a species, we carry around a certain survivor’s guilt about how we ascended to the pinnacles of the literal and figurative food chains. To the extent that this guilt is part of our conscious thought, it was put in place by education and by life experience. However, I think this guilt is part of our collective unconscious too, and can afflict even those who don’t understand (or who were born long before Darwin’s discovery of) the principle of natural selection. This guilt may even be part of the reason that so many people are still so virulently opposed to Darwin’s theory of evolution in spite of the preponderance of evidence in its favor. We achieved our near-dominance over most of the other life forms on earth (we’re still working on a few viruses and bacteria) through an impossibly gradual process of genetic change, and for this change to work, the strongest and most assertive males had to make it to the fertile females before their weaker counterparts. Viewed from a distance, natural selection is elegant and subtle. Viewed from up close, however, it looks a lot like an episode of Game of Thrones. We raped our way to the top, you and I.

George R.R. Martin’s series both is and is not about human history. For all its wargs and wights and dragons, this series has a good deal to say about how human beings achieved their dominant status over creation as a whole. The fact that the people of fictional Westeros are also afflicted by an extreme form of climate change is rarely discussed in detail (at least in the first three books) – the characters accept the inevitably of their unusual weather without question – but by putting climate change on the page, Martin seems to be asking us to consider our current plight as destroyers of the earth in the larger context of our history as its conquerors. As outraged as my Facebook feed was every Monday morning during Season 5, I think part of the reason for the show’s popularity (alongside its characters, which really are wonderfully complex) may be the fact that it gives us glimpses of the violence that most of us shy away from ever contemplating – the millennia and millennia of violence that somehow, ironically, led to my birth and yours within the sterile white walls of hospitals in our comfortable post-Darwinian world.

Posted in Authors, Essays about literature, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction - general, George R.R. Martin, Reviews by Bethany | Leave a comment

Yarn Along

Yarn Along photo 7.1.15

Yep, it’s the brown sweater again. And yep, I’m still reading A Storm of Swords. You can scroll back (and you won’t have to scroll very far back) and find me admitting these same basic truths every Wednesday for the last few weeks. I did knit and read last weekend, but without any real progress. It was like I was on a giant knitting and reading treadmill. Last night, though, I came up with an idea for a sweater I really want to design and knit – and of course I think about reading. I think about it all the time. Sharing space with the brown sweater today is Morris Dickstein’s memoir Why Not Say What Happened, which is another book I want to read soon – whenever this thing we call “reading” re-enters my life.

But all is well, I promise. All is quite well.

Yarn Along is hosted by Ginny on her blog, Small Things.

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A Review of Lisa Lutz’s The Last Word: Spellman Document 6 (by Jill)

the-last-word cover

It appears to be my week to read and write about books that wrap up a series I’ve been reading for years but have never talked about on the blog. This is a confusing and somewhat annoying experience. The Last Word: A Spellman Novel is the (probably) last book in a series of mystery novels written by Lisa Lutz. They are about the Spellmans, a family of private investigators living in San Francisco. I’ve been reading these books for a few years, but the last one I read was in 2012, about two months before we started the blog. This last book was released in hardcover in the summer of 2013 and I obviously jumped right on reading it. But now is not the time for self-flagellation regarding my reading schedule.

These novels are told in the first person; Isabel “Izzy” Spellman is our narrator. In this novel she is thirty-five years old; when the series started she was twenty-eight. Her narrative voice is sarcastic and hilarious and overall just something I enjoy reading. The Spellman family consists of parents Olivia and Albert, and three children: David, a successful lawyer; Izzy, a not-so-successful PI/retired juvenile delinquent; and Rae, who is twenty-two in this novel, and has just graduated from UC Berkeley and is trying to make up her mind about her future. Her options are graduate school, law school, or a career in “conflict resolution”/extortion. Rae is possibly Lisa Lutz’s most well-developed character in the series. It could also be Izzy, but the thing with Rae is that I never knew what she was going to do next. Izzy was much more predictable, but that could just be because I was in her head, not Rae’s. There are many supporting characters who I am not going to get into; suffice it to say that they are all well-drawn and fairly likeable, except the ones who are really, really unlikeable.

The Spellmans are a very odd family. No one trusts anyone else, and everyone is always spying on everyone else, often with hilarious results. There are fewer shenanigans in this last novel than in prior ones; in fact, this novel deals with more serious family matters than the others did, at least as far as I can remember. At the end of the fifth book in the series, Izzy staged a slightly hostile takeover of Spellman Investigations. Her parents fired her because she had disobeyed orders to cease and desist an investigation; she, in turn, went ahead and bought out her brother and sister’s shares in the company, becoming the majority partner, and let’s just say things went to her head a bit. Her parents retaliated by coming to work in pajamas, or not at all. (The office is in their house, so the pajama thing is sort of reasonable.) At the opening of The Last Word, Izzy is barely speaking to “the unit,” which is how she and her siblings refer to their parents, and the company is barely afloat. If it weren’t for the cases that Izzy is catching from her financial backer Edward Slayter (who helped her buy out Rae and David and was the subject of the investigation that cost her her job in the first place), I don’t think they would have much income at all. Edward Slayter is actually a pretty important supporting character. He is the CEO of a venture capital firm, and takes a shine to Izzy, for reasons unknown to all, especially him. They initially meet in book five, Trail of the Spellmans, when Izzy is surveiling him on behalf of his wife, who wanted to keep tabs on him so she could engage in an affair without being caught. When Izzy discovers the reason why Mrs. Slayter hired Spellman Investigations, she contacts Edward and lets him know what his wife is up to. Her parents did not want her to do this, but she does it anyway. I don’t remember the details of their reasoning, but Izzy felt strongly that she needed to do it, and she and Edward are bonded because of it. Turns out that Edward has early-onset Alzheimer’s, a fact he is trying to keep concealed for as long as possible because he fears he will lose his company when it becomes public. The major mystery in The Last Word revolves around corporate espionage and embezzlement, with someone trying to frame Izzy while also attempting to make Edward appear that he is losing his marbles. I won’t disclose more than that—this is a plot-driven mystery novel, and I don’t want to do spoilers today.

There is also Spellman family drama, but more of the actual illness variety than the typical spy vs. spy thing, though there are amusing interludes with David’s toddler daughter who thinks she is a princess and is a tiny tyrant in a pink dress. It appears that this will be the last Spellman family novel, at least for the time being, and it does make me sad. I enjoy spending time with these wacky people, and it doesn’t hurt that Lutz knows her San Francisco geography and landmarks. Izzy drinks at The Philosopher’s Club in West Portal, which is a real dive bar; she takes a date to Pancho Villa burritos at 16th and Mission, which I’ve heard is amazing though I’ve never been there myself (we were an El Faro Burrito family back in the day); she tails a subject on the Bay Bridge and 880 South. Each book is like a little trip home for me.

This book is probably the most serious of the entire series; overall they are pretty light-hearted, with decent mysteries at their core. The family dynamics are completely not based in reality, but they do love one another deep down. I’ve enjoyed reading Lisa Lutz and I have her other two books ready and waiting to devour. I don’t want to read them too soon, though. I want to look forward to them for a while longer. I’ve never read any Sue Grafton or Janet Evanovich, but I think that people who like those books will enjoy this series, as well as anyone who likes reading novels that take place in San Francisco that were written by authors who know The City really well.

PS: This book was sort of renamed to Spellman 6: The Next Generation when it came out in paperback.  I found this irritating and confusing when it first happened, and wanted to mention it in case anyone came here wondering if the two books were different.  They are not.

Posted in Fiction - Funny, Fiction - general, Fiction - Mystery, Lisa Lutz, Reviews by Jill | Leave a comment

Final Thoughts on Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam (by Jill)

Maddaddam coverI would have finished MaddAddam a lot faster if I hadn’t been camping last week. That’s okay. I didn’t mind spending more time with Margaret Atwood and her version of the future. I’m not sure that I’m going to end up having a whole lot to say about this book because there’s a lot more going on than I feel capable of/qualified to delve into from a literary criticism standpoint. There’s just so much social commentary and probably religious symbolism and that sort of thing that I don’t really know where to begin to truly write an educated-sounding review. But that’s not really my thing on PfP, that’s Bethany’s. So I’ll just tell you a bit about what I thought while I was reading it.

It was somehow appropriate that I read a good chunk of this book while I was miles away from cell phone reception, “roughing it” at a beautiful campground on the Sonoma-Mendocino coast. I felt pretty far away from civilization, though not as far away as the characters in MaddAddam are. The novel is told in a combination of flashbacks to the days before “the waterless flood,” as well as present-day action. I wish I knew what years all this stuff is supposed to happen in, because it seems like sort of the not too far distant future; I’d guess fifty years or so, maybe less. The more I read, the more creeped out I got because I could see hints of the present day evolving into this awfulness. In Atwood’s future, the gap between the rich and poor is even wider than it is now, and the middle class has essentially ceased to exist. The rich live in compounds owned by the giant corporations, and all their needs are taken care of inside the wall of the corporation (or corps) compounds (I feel like this is already starting to happen with Google and some of the other Silicon Valley companies), while the people who aren’t employed by the corps are relegated to the “pleeblands” outside, which sound like the worst possible slums. There’s also been loss of coastal land because of global warming (I assume): Santa Monica and New York are essentially underwater, along with other coastal cities. Many religions are “sponsored” by the corps, like Zeb and Adam’s father’s church, the Church of PetrOleum. They worship St. Peter, as well as oil….

In the present-day of the novel, the major conflict is between the remaining humans—the remnants of the MaddAddamites (they were the hackers on the front lines of the resistance against the status quo before the plague) and the God’s Gardeners (an anti-technology, back to the Earth, hippie-dippy cult led by a fellow known as Adam One. His half-brother, Zeb, is the leader of the MaddAddamites. They were on the same side in the struggle, though they had different ways of approaching the problem. Adam was for peace and harmony, while Zeb had a more aggressive philosophy. The brothers completely lose track of each other during the plague days, and Zeb deeply hopes that he will be able to locate Adam) are trying to protect themselves against the two remaining PainBallers on the loose, as well as those pigoons, who keep trying to break into their community and steal the vegetables. PainBall was a reality TV show in which prison inmates found guilty of violent crimes have to battle to the death. The reward for winning is a somewhat shortened sentence, and some prisoners elected to play in multiple “seasons” in order to further lessen their terms. It’s said that anyone who wins PainBall more than once has lost their sense of right and wrong and most of their humanity. They are cold-blooded killers, in essence, and they are gunning for our heroes. They also begin killing pigoon young, which causes the pigoons to want to form an alliance with the humans. Interestingly, the Crakers, or genetically engineered people who were immune to the plague, among other interesting attributes, including being able to live on an entirely herbivorous diet like a cow, and communicate telepathically with the pigoons, are instrumental in this alliance formation. The decisive battle reunites Zeb and Adam, which is a lovely scene of brotherly affection. The battle itself is not drawn out like some of the battles in The Last Town, the last book in the Wayward Pines trilogy, but then this is Margaret Atwood! She’s won the freaking Booker Prize. She doesn’t need to spend a hundred pages describing violence and death. I wouldn’t have minded a few more pages, though. Of course this fight scene is hardly crucial to the plot of the novel except it does give the reason for the pigoons, Crakers, and humans to begin to work together. But that fact is more important to everything that follows than the outcome of the fight.

I haven’t even mentioned Toby or Katrina WooWoo or Swift Fox or Ren…. There’s a lot that happens in this book, and the best part is that it all seems to make sense to me, as opposed to the events of the first book in this trilogy. I would love to go back and read all three of the books one right after the other and see if I enjoy Oryx & Crake more. I think I probably would. I would recommend the whole series to people who enjoy dystopian fiction, but not to people who didn’t enjoy The Handmaid’s Tale, or who aren’t fans of Margaret Atwood, because this is very much an Atwood series of novels. I am, of course, an Atwood fan from way back, since my old roommate Lauren first recommended I read The Handmaid’s Tale back in 1995 or 1996, so this book (and the entire trilogy, in fact) was right up my alley.

Next up for me is another “High Priority” hardcover purchase from the fall of 2013. What can I say? I’ve been busy….

Posted in Fiction - Dystopia, Fiction - general, Fiction - literary, Reviews by Jill | Leave a comment

Yarn Along

Yarn Along photo 6.24.15

I think my knitting (and maybe also my reading, though I hope not) will slow to a crawl this summer. I started a new job on Monday, and both Monday and Tuesday I was in bed by 8:00 – reading, not sleeping, but still. My English rib sweater is progressing slowly but nicely, and I’m still reading A Storm of Swords, but I just couldn’t give you a repeat of last week’s picture – especially when I haven’t posted a single review since last Wednesday. So I’ve photographed the very beginning of the sweater’s front panel side by side with a book that arrived in the mail today: Cynthia Ozick’s The Puttermesser Papers. I want to read it soon, but I feel the same about Moby Dick, so who knows?

After I took this photo in the fading evening light, I turned around and saw my cat Cleo standing on the coffee table with the shadows of the Venetian blinds criss-crossing her body. This photo captured the moment perfectly. It looks as if she’s wearing striped pants or at least has some very dramatic lower-body markings – but no, she’s actually a solid grey everywhere except her belly, her feet, and a couple of spots on her face and under her chin. The rest is just sunlight, two evenings after the solstice.

Cleo photo 6.24.15

I’ll be back soon with some book reviews, I promise.

Yarn Along is hosted by Ginny on her blog, Small Things.

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Yarn Along

Yarn Along photo 6.17

I don’t have much news to report – I’m still reading A Storm of Swords, and I’m almost done with the back panel of my English rib sweater. The photos show the sweater’s two textures: ribbing on the “right side” and an interesting nubby texture on the “wrong side.” Every time I make this sweater I always think about piecing it together “inside out” because I love that interior texture so much. Maybe next time.

Yarn Along is hosted by Ginny on her blog, Small Things

Posted in Yarn Along | 11 Comments

Thoughts on the First Half of George R.R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords (by Bethany)

storm of swords cover image

 I am now officially reading this book “full-time.” Reading it only at night was working well until I skipped a few nights and then forgot that a major character had had his hand chopped off. That’s not the sort of thing one is supposed to forget when one is a bookblogger.

A Storm of Swords is supposed to be the best volume in this series – and I agree, but only marginally. As far as I can tell, all three (OK, 2.5) books I’ve read so far are identical in tone. Each one picks up right after the previous book left off, so what we have here is one long, multi-volume narrative. I’m often tempted to compare Martin’s series to Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, and in this area the two series are very different. Each of Gabaldon’s books has its own energy, its own feeling, its own set of dominant tensions. Martin’s books, on the other hand, make up one long never-ending sine curve, like a little heartbeat running through each novel. Crest, trough, crest, trough – forever. And while I do admit to being an inattentive reader sometimes, I think this hypnotic rhythm is part of the reason that I tend to miss important events. Nothing happens to the language surrounding the important events; nothing distinguishes it from the passages that just describe Arya eating pigeons or Joffrey being a dick or Daenerys yelling at some sketchy desert-dwellers or Brienne of Tarth telling Jaime Lannister again not to call her “wench.” This rhythm is embedded in the language as well as in the events of the plot. If there’s another literary work that this novel most resembles in this sense, it would be Wordsworth’s The Prelude: a gazillion-page iambic pentameter epic poem about going for walks in the mountains.

In this book, Jaime Lannister is one of the point-of-view characters for the first time, and the great surprise is that he is (mostly) not a jerk. It’s true that he’s arrogant, though that arrogance is a factor of his birth and upbringing, mostly. In the first two books in the series, Jaime is treated like a ticking time bomb whose release (from captivity at Riverrun, which is where he spends all of A Clash of Kings) would mean total annihilation for the good guys (if in fact there are any good guys in these novels, which is up for debate). In this novel, he’s much more sympathetic. Foremost on his mind is his sister (and lover) Cersei, whom he genuinely adores. He also feels great sympathy for Tyrion, who would likely to be surprised at how fondly Jaime thinks of him. It’s also clear now that Jaime is not especially proud of the fact that he killed King Aerys Targaryen. He bristles at the sobriquet “Kingslayer” and still feels deeply conflicted that he violated his oath to protect the king.

The other point-of-view character who is new in this installment is Samwell Tarly. Sam is basically Piggy from Lord of the Flies, uprooted and replanted in Westeros. He is fat and enjoys girly things like reading and taking care of birds and not going on endless death-marches in the snow. However, Sam is also the one who figures out that the “Others” can be killed with obsidian (which is not at all how it worked in Lost, but I digress). Some of the other men in the Knight’s Watch have started calling Sam “Slayer,” which Sam doesn’t like much – but nevertheless, he is carving a niche for himself among the Black Brothers. In the chapter I read most recently, Sam is present when Craster dies and is in the process of figuring out what he will be able to do to help Craster’s veritable army of his wives/daughters. They’re a versatile bunch.

In each book, certain characters’ chapters are more interesting than others. In this book, I look forward to the chapters about Jaime, Tyrion, Sansa, and Daenerys, and just a few chapters ago there was a Davos chapter that was really interesting. Bran’s chapters are a snooze in this book, as are Catelyn’s, and so far the “Narnia” sections of the book (which is what I call the chapters about Jon Snow and Sam Tarly) don’t interest me very much, in spite of the fact that social media assures me that Jon is a character one is supposed to care about a great deal. In A Clash of Kings, I could barely stay awake through the Daenerys chapters, but now she is busy buying an army of castrated warriors who are so inured to pain that one can cut their nipples off without eliciting a response (just like what’s-his-face on Mad Men!), and her chapters can’t come around fast enough.

I am definitely engaged and invested in this book, which is more than I could say about A Clash of Kings when I was at its midpoint. I’m looking forward to reading more.

Posted in Authors, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction - general, George R.R. Martin, Reviews by Bethany | Tagged | Leave a comment