I've been reading A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin for a while now. It started as a recommendation which led to a reality which in turn led to a really enjoyable read.
I feel like it is about time that I make my confession. A while back, I recall being somewhat indignant on the topic of modern literature. I proudly stuck to my classics for so long, but for a time now, I've been sneaking out of my shell, almost without realising, and getting a taste of fresh air. I'm not sure what sort of reader I am anymore. Maybe in a month's time, I'll have organised my thoughts, but right this moment, it seems that I'm reading a lot more stuff that doesn't fit into my old categories, or tick boxes that I thought were at least significant in some way.
Douglas Adams turned my world upside down, and Jonathan Safran Foer kicked it nicely in the stomach. And George R.R. Martin... well I'm not sure how long my trip with him will last, but so far, it's been a wonderful detour.
The friend who recommended it to me, actually, told me to keep in mind that Martin is notorious for killing off any and all characters unexpectedly. Now that I am painfully aware of this, I have also become painfully paranoid. Whenever a character, regardless of whether I like them or not, goes anywhere near a ledge or walks through I shadow, my insides reel with a siren, screaming "No, someone will push you over, or stab you in the dark! Just don't die! Please!"
So far, however, only one character has died and it didn't hurt too badly. What did hurt me, however, was the infuriatingly unexpected betrayal that took place shortly afterwards. I get quite physical when I get excited by a book. I had been hunched over it like a child minutely inspecting a hermit crab in its shell when all of a sudden it all started happening and I got lost and freaked out and I flinched every inch of myself away from it as though the hermit crab had lunged for a nip and scared me. Then with hands in the air as it held me hostage, I sat for minutes with my mouth hanging open, gargling unintelligibly.
I love it when a book does that to you. I suppose, as long as I'm reading something that I'm enjoying, it doesn't matter so much if it's new or old. I think that has been an important realisation for me to arrive at.