Literature
I read something today about books.
George, R.R. Martin is the author of the “Game of Thrones” series of books (I know that GoT isn’t the ACTUAL name of the series but for arguments sake will use that for the time being).
He is a phenomenal fantasy writer, he brings landscapes to life and ropes in many who find themselves glancing over any one of his works.
A wordsmith through and through.
He has a lot to say about fantasy novels, and literature as a whole. He has a lot to say about life. Many of us do I suppose.
“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.”
Upon the first time I read this, I thought it perfectly described the way I felt about books. I never agreed with a statement more.
The more i thought about it however, the sadder this became to me.
In fact this is likely the saddest thing I’ve read in months. Not only because of the inherent implications for Martin and the proponents of this statement, but for my easy agreement with it.
Because reality is boring says my generation, says me.
Take to a place where things are right. Take me to a place where things are the way they’re supposed to be. Take to me a place with color, with life, with energy.
Because my life is worthless, boring, and drab.
It’s the cry of the Christian, and the atheist alike. This life is worthless, meaningless, useless. The conservative Christian hopes that God will take him away from the awful doomed earth, away from the pain and suffering. Give me my ticket to heaven, get me away from the sin.
Save me from my boring awful reality.
The atheist needs a good distraction before the coming nothingness, a reprieve from the state of the world, he or she has no hope at all.
Save me from my boring awful reality.
Take me, oh wielder of the pen and page to a place where I can be free.
God forbid I should put any work into making my reality something beautiful, interesting…
Worthwhile.
(Disclaimer: I love books. I also love Christians and Atheists. And Agnostics, and emergents, and fucking pastafarians.)
