Uploaded October 2014 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago
Valkyrist.wordpress.com — This is an extract from THE FACES OF FANTASY: PHOTOGRAPHS BY PATI PERRET, in which George R. R. Martin, author of the A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, discusses his love of the fantasy genre. It is accompanied by various artwork.
"The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth."
Valkyrist.wordpress.com — This is an extract from THE FACES OF FANTASY: PHOTOGRAPHS BY PATI PERRET, in which George R. R. Martin, author of the A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE series, discusses his love of the fantasy genre. It is accompanied by various artwork.
"The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth."
![Arya and the Nights King [Winds of Winter FanFiction]](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/v75T7iOExNY/mqdefault.jpg "Arya and the Nights King [Winds of Winter FanFiction]
Blood of the Direwolf (full): https://archiveofourown.org/works/297398/chapters/476403
In this A Song of Ice and Fire (ASOIAF) fanfiction story, Arya Stark and the Wildlings attempt to reclaim the Wall from Bowen Marsh and his mutineers. She has vowed to avenge Jon Snows murder and restore the defense of the North. But what Arya discovers in Castle Black heralds the return of an ancient evil.")
