The internets are all abuzz about the latest episode of Game of Thrones. I am a latecomer to A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin, I admit. The first book, Game of Thrones, was published in 1996 and has since risen to the heights of most “Best Fantasy” book lists. At some point I read one of those lists, bought the book, and it sat on my shelf for several years (always in the “to read” category). Then, when the HBO series came out I watched the first episode and quite frankly, couldn’t keep the characters straight (not to mention the tremendous backstory that sets up all the events!). So, I decided I would read the books since they had a nice index in the back with full family lines and this would get me more of the backstory necessary to fully appreciate the story.
Well, I was hooked. I stopped watching the TV series, bought the rest of the books, and was overwhelmed by Westeros and Essos for nearly 3 months. I then went back to the TV series and have been pleasantly entertained by the adaptation.
Now, back to Season 3, Episode 9. I have to admit that I was quite tickled by the reactions filmed by those who knew what was coming of those who did not. Martin is an author that seems to enjoy killing off characters you love and the Red Wedding (as it’s known) is a slaughterhouse for beloved heroes.
There is a part of me that is resentful of the reaction of those who have not read the books. “Read the books, they’re so much better, and you get so much more out of it.”
I had the exact same reaction to the Red Wedding when I read the books that TV fans had this week. And that’s what bothers me. It seems that everyone had an amazing shared experience of horror and disbelief that I suffered through alone. I remembering slamming the book down and charging outside for a breath of fresh air. Looking back now, I would have loved to commiserate with fellow readers, share my suffering with theirs. But I was all alone. No one to confide in, no one to vent to without sounding deranged. So when people had the same reaction this week, I was resentful and condescending because the emotions of the event were no longer fresh for me. Time has healed the experience, but for others it is fresh. I must not forget my own experience and extend to them the “shoulder to cry on” that I lacked. This all might seem a bit overstated since we’re just talking about a fictional story, but I think it illustrates just how real and how powerful art and beauty can move us.
And this is what I take from this experience: suffering (whether at the hands of some real-life problem or at the hands of some sadistic author) is often best managed in community. Even the suffering experienced through art is best a shared experience.
This does not mean I’ll stop reading the books (who knows how many years before The Winds of Winter is released anyway) because there is a depth and breadth of story and character that cannot be match by television or film (it’s simply a limit of the medium). This may, however, call for a book group with whom I can journey through this drama.