A CRITIQUE OF George R. R. Martin's A SONG OF lCE AND FIRE, in fictional prose, with apologies to Lloyd Biggle Jr. and H. P. Lovecraft. by KeLP
Jan Darzek motioned for Randolph Carter to follow, then stepped thru the teleportal. The dim light was now much dimmer, filtered thru a heavy curtain drawn over a window to his right. Carter whispered, "Can you make him out?"
Darzek said nothing, letting his eyes adjust. The furniture slowly took shape, first the king size bed, the dresser, the chairs. The bed, judging by the lumpen shape, was occupied. He nudged Carter and pointed, "There."
He turned slowly, found the door, and motioned Carter toward it. Quietly, he opened it, followed Carter out, and shut it behind them. "So far, so good," he whispered. "Now downstairs to the study."
The house was large and dark, but Darzek moved confidently thru it. Down the stairs, three doors to the right, and the object they sought stood before them: an antique rolltop desk. Darzek pulled a small object from his pocket, slipped it into the lock, and rolled the top up.
On the writing surface sat neat piles of paper. Using a penlight, Darzek scanned the writing. He grinned. "This is it.''
Carter, strangely, said, "Oh!"
Something dark moved between his light and the papers, the pages flew wildly across the room, then something went THUNK against the wall.
Carter chuckled. "Good try, Melisandre."
Darzek closed his eyes as the lights came on, too bright. He heard her voice saying, sweetly, "Old Mr. Carter. Are you still alive?" Squinting, Darzek looked toward the voice. It was a red blob, slowly dissolving into a red woman, or rather a copperhaired woman in flaming red dress, a medieval dress with flowing dagged sleeves. Her face was as stern as it was beautiful.
Carter chuckled again. "Alive? I wonder, sometimes."
They could hear footsteps, many footsteps, coming quickly. Darzek pulled his .45, and looked over at the wall where the THUNK sound was made. A flat, dull black form, slightly human shaped, lay like a stain against the baseboard. One of those, he thought.
Melisandre stepped to her right as into the room came three dragons, white, green, and black, all about the size of a small pony. Behind them came another woman dressed in sand-colored trousers and a plain leather vest. Behind her came a portly man with a dark, neatly trimmed beard wearing a bathrobe.
For a long few seconds, the world seemed to freeze.
Darzek spoke first. "Well, Martin, I guess you know why we're here."
The bearded man sighed. "Trying to steal my manuscripts, from the looks of it."
"It's for the best," said Darzek. "Two more books of that dross, and Fantasy will be dead."
"The death of Fantasy from the pen of the writer of 1999's Fantasy Novel of the Year?"
"Which had precious little Fantasy in it." Carter retorted.
The second woman, Daenerys Targaryen, waved her arms over her dragons saying, "If not Fantasy, what are these?"
"From what l've seen in nearly 2000 pages," Carter mused, "they could as well be oversized parrots."
"Drogon burned the Palace of Dust!" she cried.
"And a parrot could have done the same by overturning a few candles," Carter drolly replied.
Daenerys fumed. "Watch your tongue, or you'll see what these 'parrots' can do."
"Those lizards will feed the cats of Ulthar if I. . ."
Darzek motioned Carter to silence. "We have a mission to complete. Trading insults gets us nowhere."
"Nowhere is where you will stay, Jan," Melisandre said with just a touch of sympathy. "You shall not leave with the manuscripts."
Darzek smiled, but said nothing.
Martin spoke. "Surely we can work this out. My Fantasy may not please you, but many find it superb." He turned to Carter. "You, sir, deride the elements of Fantasy, of Wonderment, that I've written. Let us list them: we have your opinion of the dragons. But the Direwolves. . ."
"Large dogs." Carter replied.
"The Others. . ."
"Mammoths and Treants seen only in a dream. The only 'monster' so far is the undead: the Mummy, moves slowly and easily burned. And just as fearsome. Phfft."
Martin winced. "I really feel that is not a fair comparison. Nevertheless, there is the Comet. . ."
"All things to all peoples, with no meaning in itself by legend or myth. A mere device to fill space.
"However," Carter continued, "It had promise. Too bad you wasted it."
Melisandre could stay quiet no longer. "And my Shadow Children? Are they so unFantastical?"
"Sadly, my dear, compared to the thousand young of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat," he pointed to the black form on the floor, "they don't have any substance."
Darzek blanched. "Bad pun, Carter."
At that Rhaegal, the green dragon, hissed, flapped his wings in place a few times, then flew over Darzek and Carter to land heavily on top of the rolltop desk. Carter turned to face it, but Darzek didn't take his eyes off the others.
Daenerys spoke. "How long, Darzek, do you think my pets will wait? They grow very restless."
"I've dealt with worse." he answered. "Continue, Martin."
"Umhum, yes. Well, there are the green dreams. . ."
"Oh, please!" Carter cried, turning away from the dragon to face Martin. "Having descended the Seven Hundred Steps to the Gate of Greater Slumber, and through it, I am hardly impressed. And these dream sequences of yours: some merely delusional as with Tyrion, more filler than substance; others, the green dreams of the Bog children and the wolf dreams of Bran, they tease the reader, but deliver little. The Bog boy's green dream only came partially true, but you used it, and Theon's nightmare, to continue to fool the reader, to make the reader think Bran and Rickon were dead when all along You knew otherwise. Unfair and definitely not Fantasy if used in that way."
Darzek broke in. "That's the gist of it, Martin. You play unfair with your readers, your Fantasy barely exists, and that that does is weak and unimaginative. So, we must stop you before the next novel is published."
"Despite the awards?"
"More so because of them. Fantasy must be saved for the sake of the readers, not the critics."
"It was a reader's poll that titled it Novel of the Year."
"Then we save them from themselves."
Martin looked to Daenerys, then to Melisandre. Almost as on cue, the trio burst into laughter. "I'm afraid," Martin said, "you're too late."
Darzek tried to still his anger. "How so?"
"Read through those papers. Go ahead. Take them with you if you wish." Tears of laughter rolled down his face. "Go on, take them."
As Darzek turned to the desk, Rhaegal flew over his head and out the door. Viserion and Drogon followed, and so also departed Martin and the two women.
As Darzek scanned the pages, Carter picked up those the Shadow Child had strewn across the floor. Before he finished, Darzek had sighed and slumped into the lowbacked chair.
"Bad news?" Carter asked.
"We should have guessed." Darzek replied. "Stupid of us, I suppose. Here. . ." He proffered a page.
"What's this?" Carter read it once, twice. "So?" he asked.
"Don't you see, that's a screenplay. And here. . ." he held out two more pages.
As Carter read them, Darzek commented, "Those are from his publisher. The third volume is at the printers, the forth already to his editor. And that page," he pointed at the screenplay paper, "means they are planning a movie or, more likely, a television mini-series."
"We can go to New York, L.A., get their copies. . ."
"We're too late. We were always too late. We were defeated before Martin wrote the first novel. Look at the movies, video games, cable TV: all emphasizing graphic violence and special effects. Look at the remakes of old movies, the movies of old TV shows, TV shows and movies based on video games. All unimaginative, all with no sense of Fantasy.
"It had to come to novels, to the written word. And who reads the Old Novelists today?"
Carter dropped the pages onto the desktop. "I suppose we must go back. . ."
"Yes, back." Darzek rose from the chair, pulled out the controls to the teleportal. "We join Iranon in realization of the futility of our quest. How did Lovecraft say it?"
Carter quoted, "'That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.'"
"Just so," said Darzek. "Just so." And he activated the teleportal.
Jan Darzek motioned for Randolph Carter to follow, then stepped thru the teleportal. The dim light was now much dimmer, filtered thru a heavy curtain drawn over a window to his right. Carter whispered, "Can you make him out?"
Darzek said nothing, letting his eyes adjust. The furniture slowly took shape, first the king size bed, the dresser, the chairs. The bed, judging by the lumpen shape, was occupied. He nudged Carter and pointed, "There."
He turned slowly, found the door, and motioned Carter toward it. Quietly, he opened it, followed Carter out, and shut it behind them. "So far, so good," he whispered. "Now downstairs to the study."
The house was large and dark, but Darzek moved confidently thru it. Down the stairs, three doors to the right, and the object they sought stood before them: an antique rolltop desk. Darzek pulled a small object from his pocket, slipped it into the lock, and rolled the top up.
On the writing surface sat neat piles of paper. Using a penlight, Darzek scanned the writing. He grinned. "This is it.''
Carter, strangely, said, "Oh!"
Something dark moved between his light and the papers, the pages flew wildly across the room, then something went THUNK against the wall.
Carter chuckled. "Good try, Melisandre."
Darzek closed his eyes as the lights came on, too bright. He heard her voice saying, sweetly, "Old Mr. Carter. Are you still alive?" Squinting, Darzek looked toward the voice. It was a red blob, slowly dissolving into a red woman, or rather a copperhaired woman in flaming red dress, a medieval dress with flowing dagged sleeves. Her face was as stern as it was beautiful.
Carter chuckled again. "Alive? I wonder, sometimes."
They could hear footsteps, many footsteps, coming quickly. Darzek pulled his .45, and looked over at the wall where the THUNK sound was made. A flat, dull black form, slightly human shaped, lay like a stain against the baseboard. One of those, he thought.
Melisandre stepped to her right as into the room came three dragons, white, green, and black, all about the size of a small pony. Behind them came another woman dressed in sand-colored trousers and a plain leather vest. Behind her came a portly man with a dark, neatly trimmed beard wearing a bathrobe.
For a long few seconds, the world seemed to freeze.
Darzek spoke first. "Well, Martin, I guess you know why we're here."
The bearded man sighed. "Trying to steal my manuscripts, from the looks of it."
"It's for the best," said Darzek. "Two more books of that dross, and Fantasy will be dead."
"The death of Fantasy from the pen of the writer of 1999's Fantasy Novel of the Year?"
"Which had precious little Fantasy in it." Carter retorted.
The second woman, Daenerys Targaryen, waved her arms over her dragons saying, "If not Fantasy, what are these?"
"From what l've seen in nearly 2000 pages," Carter mused, "they could as well be oversized parrots."
"Drogon burned the Palace of Dust!" she cried.
"And a parrot could have done the same by overturning a few candles," Carter drolly replied.
Daenerys fumed. "Watch your tongue, or you'll see what these 'parrots' can do."
"Those lizards will feed the cats of Ulthar if I. . ."
Darzek motioned Carter to silence. "We have a mission to complete. Trading insults gets us nowhere."
"Nowhere is where you will stay, Jan," Melisandre said with just a touch of sympathy. "You shall not leave with the manuscripts."
Darzek smiled, but said nothing.
Martin spoke. "Surely we can work this out. My Fantasy may not please you, but many find it superb." He turned to Carter. "You, sir, deride the elements of Fantasy, of Wonderment, that I've written. Let us list them: we have your opinion of the dragons. But the Direwolves. . ."
"Large dogs." Carter replied.
"The Others. . ."
"Mammoths and Treants seen only in a dream. The only 'monster' so far is the undead: the Mummy, moves slowly and easily burned. And just as fearsome. Phfft."
Martin winced. "I really feel that is not a fair comparison. Nevertheless, there is the Comet. . ."
"All things to all peoples, with no meaning in itself by legend or myth. A mere device to fill space.
"However," Carter continued, "It had promise. Too bad you wasted it."
Melisandre could stay quiet no longer. "And my Shadow Children? Are they so unFantastical?"
"Sadly, my dear, compared to the thousand young of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat," he pointed to the black form on the floor, "they don't have any substance."
Darzek blanched. "Bad pun, Carter."
At that Rhaegal, the green dragon, hissed, flapped his wings in place a few times, then flew over Darzek and Carter to land heavily on top of the rolltop desk. Carter turned to face it, but Darzek didn't take his eyes off the others.
Daenerys spoke. "How long, Darzek, do you think my pets will wait? They grow very restless."
"I've dealt with worse." he answered. "Continue, Martin."
"Umhum, yes. Well, there are the green dreams. . ."
"Oh, please!" Carter cried, turning away from the dragon to face Martin. "Having descended the Seven Hundred Steps to the Gate of Greater Slumber, and through it, I am hardly impressed. And these dream sequences of yours: some merely delusional as with Tyrion, more filler than substance; others, the green dreams of the Bog children and the wolf dreams of Bran, they tease the reader, but deliver little. The Bog boy's green dream only came partially true, but you used it, and Theon's nightmare, to continue to fool the reader, to make the reader think Bran and Rickon were dead when all along You knew otherwise. Unfair and definitely not Fantasy if used in that way."
Darzek broke in. "That's the gist of it, Martin. You play unfair with your readers, your Fantasy barely exists, and that that does is weak and unimaginative. So, we must stop you before the next novel is published."
"Despite the awards?"
"More so because of them. Fantasy must be saved for the sake of the readers, not the critics."
"It was a reader's poll that titled it Novel of the Year."
"Then we save them from themselves."
Martin looked to Daenerys, then to Melisandre. Almost as on cue, the trio burst into laughter. "I'm afraid," Martin said, "you're too late."
Darzek tried to still his anger. "How so?"
"Read through those papers. Go ahead. Take them with you if you wish." Tears of laughter rolled down his face. "Go on, take them."
As Darzek turned to the desk, Rhaegal flew over his head and out the door. Viserion and Drogon followed, and so also departed Martin and the two women.
As Darzek scanned the pages, Carter picked up those the Shadow Child had strewn across the floor. Before he finished, Darzek had sighed and slumped into the lowbacked chair.
"Bad news?" Carter asked.
"We should have guessed." Darzek replied. "Stupid of us, I suppose. Here. . ." He proffered a page.
"What's this?" Carter read it once, twice. "So?" he asked.
"Don't you see, that's a screenplay. And here. . ." he held out two more pages.
As Carter read them, Darzek commented, "Those are from his publisher. The third volume is at the printers, the forth already to his editor. And that page," he pointed at the screenplay paper, "means they are planning a movie or, more likely, a television mini-series."
"We can go to New York, L.A., get their copies. . ."
"We're too late. We were always too late. We were defeated before Martin wrote the first novel. Look at the movies, video games, cable TV: all emphasizing graphic violence and special effects. Look at the remakes of old movies, the movies of old TV shows, TV shows and movies based on video games. All unimaginative, all with no sense of Fantasy.
"It had to come to novels, to the written word. And who reads the Old Novelists today?"
Carter dropped the pages onto the desktop. "I suppose we must go back. . ."
"Yes, back." Darzek rose from the chair, pulled out the controls to the teleportal. "We join Iranon in realization of the futility of our quest. How did Lovecraft say it?"
Carter quoted, "'That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.'"
"Just so," said Darzek. "Just so." And he activated the teleportal.