Yesterday, I visited Parkway Parade and on a whim added two venerable novels into my stack of unread books - Pride and Prejudice and Don Quixote. This transaction was carried out duly and cost me a ten, which was outrageously funny. Pride compels me to deny categorically that the purchase was driven at all by monetary concerns; honesty compels me otherwise, and thus, without explicitly revealing the victor of this internal struggle, have I (paradoxically) done so.
The conclusion of Memory is deliciously symmetrical. Poldarn's story has come full circle and his terrible task is complete. The revelation of his identity was also another clever twist, although I'd already guessed it from the first book (and was misled by an alibi, three red herrings and a volcanic island). It's truly one of those head-bashing moments that come with the inevitability of a revelation, one that's so subtle and yet so blatant at the same time.
Lord of Light is fundamentally ironic. Something I realized today.
I've started on Robin Hobb's book. It's painstakingly written and enormously descriptive; her diction is formal, her characters stylized fantasy stereotypes, her plot and setting rather Eddings. This only applies to the first 10 pages, though, and it is by no means boring, but after reading the gritty realities of the Scavenger Trilogy, the stylized epic form here is a little jarring.