At the moment, I am reading a fantasy novel that is dull, plodding, filled with one dimensional characters; and for all that is unaccountably popular (George R. R. Martin's "A Game of Thrones"). There is no beautiful language, everyone on the "good" side is noble and honourable; and everyone on the "bad" side is loathsome. Caricatures. I also read on a website a detailed
critique/review of a fantasy series I found this year and adored (Patrick Rothfuss' "The Kingkiller Chronicles", spent a couple of hours reading through it, thrilled to find references to other loved books. I don't really know where I am going with this; just trying to bring some thoughts about popularity ≠ intrinsic worth.
You want it like this, truncated days and longer nights, for us to have no existence outside of the dark; the twisted dishevelled bed. You are scared of the scales that slide through you, scared to look down at yourself and see the hard edge of reptile skin, scared most of all of your forked tongue, promising too much to too many. I am your chameleon in a cupboard.
By rights he should be scorched, branded by the searing heat of your words - astonishing in their powerful imagery.
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