The works of Flannery O’Connor are not for everyone. A fair number of fellow readers that I’ve encountered have been repulsed by her violent style, her grotesque images, and her gothic setting. This is fair enough, I suppose. Some of these readers, though, are discerning enough to recognize her virtues even while not preferring them for themselves. This latter group tend to be religious and literary.
It was especially disappointing to me, though, to read Marilynne Robinson’s rather cutting remarks towards St. Flannery in her New York Times interview. Frankly, I was shocked that a writer like her—who very much occupies the categories of “religious” and “literary”—should so flatly misunderstand O’Connor. Continue reading Not a Cold Eye
A review of George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones and the suggestion of a better book.
I recently finished reading George R.R. Martin’sGame of Thrones (just the first book, mind you, not the entire series). First, let me admit: it was entertaining. It was not imaginative. It was not breathtaking. But it was a page-turner; that much must be admitted by rights.
It was not, however, a good book, and it does not deserve the accolades it has received. It suffers from many of the problems which the fantasy genre has suffered after the advent of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Let’s start with a nod to the ladies.
I do not frequently repeat this most shrill of charges, but the author does warrant the accusation of sexism. He considers, apparently, narrating from the mind of a woman an insufferably uninteresting setting, so he instead resorts to narrating between her legs. Inevitably, the worst writing takes place in this location. There are, as far as I can recall, three types of women in Martin’s first book: those who care about breeding, those who use sex as a tool (and are generally perverted in some way), and those women who are really just men with breasts. He reminds you about the breasts. Allow me to share some of the gems. Continue reading Game of Moans