Tomorrow Elephant

I just finished reading George R. R. Martin’s burglar-smashingly massive A Feast for Crows, the fourth volume in the epic A Song of Ice and Fire.

Begun in A Game of Thrones and followed by A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords, Song is the only brick-sized fantasy series I can bear to read these days. It’s a dizzyingly complex saga of power struggles and intrigues across seven kingdoms on Martin’s brilliantly realised pseudo-medieval continent, Westeros. Unlike in so much of what is known as fat fantasy (the bloated Marlon Brando of the speculative fiction) there is hardly any magic or a kitchen scullion with a Great Destiny in sight. Instead, the series focuses on the Macchiavellian maneuvers and outright warfare that follow the death of King Robert Baratheon, consciously echoing the Wars of the Roses. Sure enough, there are dragons and quests too, but the main story is driven by very human characters whom you both love and love to hate.

It is difficult to convey how immensely complex and engaging Song really is. For example, A Feast for Crows features at least ten viewpoint characters, and that’s only half of the main cast —- Martin had to split the fourth book in two! The astonishing thing is that he never, ever drops any of the myriad balls that he juggles. Every single character is drawn with just enough detail to be memorable, descriptions are vivid and visual, and the action frantic. This is a master craftsman at work, no question about it.

In fact, the scale of the series and is such that I think it serves as yet another good illustration of Steven Berlin Johnson’s thesis that popular culture is getting increasingly sophisticated and requires more and more cognitive effort from its consumers. Like Lost and other frequently quoted examples of this phenomenon, fans have produced extensive reference sites on the web —- which I personally had to consult since it’s been quite a while since I read the previous volume. (In contrast to Lost, though, Martin appears to know exactly where the story is going. Hints of what is to come are peppered throughout Feast, and the overall arc of the seven-book series is clearly visible.)

Westeros is a world that practically demands obsessive immersion, much like Middle-Earth. But it is by no means a facsimile of Tolkien’s imaginary world. Indeed, sone could argue that with Tolkien’s sub-creation, the lure lies primarily in the landscapes and sweeping history, whereas the appeal of Martin’s world is very much based on its characters.

On the other hand, as Cheryl Morgan points out, Song utilises many traditional power tools of soap opera —- relatively short chapters with constant plot twists and rapid viewpoint changes. Many of the characters are certainly reminiscent of soap opera archetypes as well, although Martin is far too clever to resort to outright cliches. Thus, although Song is clearly informed (or is the antithesis of) by the Tolkien tradition, it is not the work of a Medieval scholar but a modern writer very much aware of the visual medium. (Unsurprisingly, Martin worked in Hollywood for ten years, most notably on the TV series Beauty and the Beast.)

It’s a potent mix, and as addictive as crack cocaine. Personally, I can’t wait for A Dance of Dragons, forthcoming sometime next year if we’re lucky. Having consumed far too much technical literature, mainstream novels and hard SF in the recent months, it is good to be reminded of what good fantasy can really be like. Martin himself puts it best:

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.