A Game of Thrones

Though I'm still growing up, I think it's safe enough to say that I've grown up enough to face the awful truth that summer doesn't last forever and neither does Christmas vacation. There's responsibilities, guilt, school, and, first and foremost, not enough time to explore lands I could only imagine, and the real world, which, all too often, is not nearly as interesting -- but then, some would argue that adults aren't very interesting either so I guess it works out okay in the end.

The point is, that it's been a long time since I just wanted to sit down on the couch with a few creature comforts and simply read for hours.

A Game of Thrones broke the cycle, for good or ill. I probably should have waited until after school to start reading it, but I hadn't actually foreseen that I'd be so vested in it, since it was a fantasy and all.

I haven't read much good fantasy lately. Though I can't remember titles -- I remember it being highly idealistic with parts to be played that, frankly, had begun to bore me (and that's not even including the blither blather of unpronounceable names, typical magic, fairies, orcs, blah blah blah). It was all very safe and predictable.

A Game of Thrones is such a welcome relief.

It isn't safe. There's incest, murder, and betrayal. There's dragons and horses and direwolves. There are heads on spikes and girls who didn't grow up fast enough and sisters who grew up too fast. There are boys growing into Kings before their fathers died, and kings who shouldn't be on the throne. There are poncy little wankers I want to throttle, and others (not wankers, obviously) I've fallen in love with.

And there are dragons. Dragons!

The plot is so twisted and full and intricate that it is a delight to read.

And it isn't safe.

The Wonderful Things He Does

According to Don Quixote, the titular character had no brains (thumbs up in case of a zombie apocalypse!).

In short, he so immersed himself in those romances that he spent whole days and nights over his books; and thus with little sleeping and much reading, his brains dried up to such a degree that he lost the use of his reason.

But wait, oh gentle reader. There is more.

And all the while he rode slowly on while the sun rose with such intense heat that it would have been enough to dissolve his brains, if he had had any left.

Conclusion:

The Romance Novel is the Equivalent of Modern Television And Perilously Dangerous to Brains and Mental Intelligence.

In light of this fact, I hereby propose that professors spend their time on far more interesting worthy subjects that do not endanger precious brains that are not easily replaceable.

Now. I'm sure that I'm not the only one who doesn't want the earth overrun with scarecrows!