Take a photo of a barcode or cover
A review by leifalreadyexists
A Feast for Crows by George R.R. Martin
3.0
I read this one at the same time as A Dance with Dragons in the strange mixture called "A Feast for Dragons" (http://afeastwithdragons.com/), where the chapters are combined and re-ordered in terms of general series chronology, and oh boy maybe that was a good decision, maybe it was a bad decision, but I'm going to write one review for both books and I'm going to tell you right now that it took me a hell of a long time to read so much, so so much!
Putting all of the chapters together is kind of a silly decision: it pretends as if all of this matters and, dear friends, after reading EVERYTHING I'm here to tell you that NONE of it matters. After reading everything, you're surrounded in the goo called "Westeros" and nothing matters except you're free from that sticky, bloating, richly devised substance that everyone you know cannot seem to help but breathe new life into. The combined faith of so many readers-turned-preachers create quite the massive fantasy here. Narratively, you miss on whatever focuses Martin chose to centre the two novels around, and you miss out a lot. I much preferred the events of Westeros to those on the other continent, and definitely began to feel some storylines drag while others – Brienne's and Jon's – shone in comparison.
At the same time, putting all this together at least gives you an understanding of what a mountain this all is. You can do other things with your life! I'd say, do them. Don't dwell on this fantasy; it'll blow over in the stiff breeze called time. This is just another infusion of more of the same, and there are so many beautiful, aching, revelatory, horrific novels out there, to say nothing of the rest of the world.
As if I would ever convince you, now that you're here.
Putting all of the chapters together is kind of a silly decision: it pretends as if all of this matters and, dear friends, after reading EVERYTHING I'm here to tell you that NONE of it matters. After reading everything, you're surrounded in the goo called "Westeros" and nothing matters except you're free from that sticky, bloating, richly devised substance that everyone you know cannot seem to help but breathe new life into. The combined faith of so many readers-turned-preachers create quite the massive fantasy here. Narratively, you miss on whatever focuses Martin chose to centre the two novels around, and you miss out a lot. I much preferred the events of Westeros to those on the other continent, and definitely began to feel some storylines drag while others – Brienne's and Jon's – shone in comparison.
At the same time, putting all this together at least gives you an understanding of what a mountain this all is. You can do other things with your life! I'd say, do them. Don't dwell on this fantasy; it'll blow over in the stiff breeze called time. This is just another infusion of more of the same, and there are so many beautiful, aching, revelatory, horrific novels out there, to say nothing of the rest of the world.
As if I would ever convince you, now that you're here.