/lit/ - Literature

>>2617719
To tell it true, he had enjoyed several parts of the novel. Jon Snow's first chapter was strong, as were the Bran and Davos chapters. He'd not expected that. Many of the early story arcs had glistened wetly with promise but of these Martin had written little and less as the book wore on. Of Dany's aimless navel-gazing, there'd been much and more. Asha and Victarion vied for the distinction of the most pointless Greyjoy POV. Ariane Martell had twisted her teats for naught, for her brother Quentyn's chapters proved to be as useless as nipples on a breastplate. Gods be good, he thought, the fat man teased us with Feast's Dorne chapters for.... this?

And Jaime... that had been the cruelest jape of all. Best that Martin had left out his sole chapter. Though, given the masturbatory excess of Dance's prose, Martin could have learned a thing or two from a man who'd had to make do without his sword hand.

The epilogue was a satisfying end to an unsavory meal, but even the most succulent lemoncake doesn't salvage a bland and unfilling meal of gruel. In truth, it should've been left in A Feast for Crows, along with Cersei's chapters. At least then at least one of the novels from the last ten years would've amounted to more than a mummer's farce.

He set down his copy of A Dance with Dragons with an unsatisfying thud. Words are wind, he mused. Speaking of which... He raised a leg and broke his word. It smelt of stale bacon grease and mashed neeps.