Rummaging through a list of my longest wishes, I remembered Robert Jordan's long-forgotten Wheels of Time series. He is considered one of the continuators of John Tolkien's classic fantasy tradition and a master of epic and lengthy storytelling. At the time of Jordan's death, the cycle consisted of 11 books and the story cut short on the last 12th volume, but drafts remained and the writer's wife commissioned Brand Sanderson to complete the saga, which required three more volumes.
Jordan was born in Charleston, South Carolina. He served two tours in Vietnam (from 1968 to 1970) with the United States Army as a helicopter gunner. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross with bronze oak leaf cluster, the Bronze Star with "V" and bronze oak leaf cluster, and two Vietnamese Gallantry Crosses with palm. After returning from Vietnam he attended The Citadel where he received an undergraduate degree in physics. After graduating he was employed by the United States Navy as a nuclear engineer. He began writing in 1977. He was a history buff and enjoyed hunting, fishing, sailing, poker, chess, pool, and pipe collecting.
"The Eye of the World" is a novel prelude. A prelude that should introduce the reader to the world, to some aspects of the magic, history, and geography of the world of the Wheel. Here we are introduced to the characters who will accompany us on their journeys and battles throughout the series, here we witness a world crisis-a new round of war with a world destroyer nicknamed the Dark One.
The scale of the epic is impressive and at the same time alarming, whether the writer can not only keep the bar set, but to raise it, to surpass himself, to captivate the reader and make the work deeper, more multifaceted? I want to believe that yes, because the first volume is a direct eulogy to the Professor. It's black and white, with almost no nuance. Of course, you could argue that there is no white in the book, but only pale gray, because in contrast to the adherents of darkness, the heroes and sympathetic characters do not look white and fluffy, but still bipolarity is evident.
The book is dedicated to the confrontation of several ordinary boys and girls from the lost village of Dvurechye and the Dark himself. True opposition is more like a wolf chasing the hare, but the essence does not change. The plot is linear to the point of obscenity, instead of branches we see loops of the pattern, which represent the obligatory milestones for the development and formation of the heroes, hardening of spirit and body. The "peculiarities" of each of the characters act as a catalyst for this development. But their disclosure can be equated with a spoiler.
The narrative style from the very beginning prepares the reader for a long story: rather slow, full of descriptions, actions, reflections, and feelings of the characters. It seems that the percentage of dialogue is inferior to everything else in terms of quantity. Qualitatively, too. The characters utter the phrases expected of them, sometimes quite childish, although, as far as I understood from the book, they are on the verge of adulthood, accustomed to work, and therefore could think a little more mature and logical. However, then they would have got into less trouble and the book would have been more boring.
Speaking of boring, it was not, despite all the author's attempts to delay the moment of Truth, add problems to the characters and repeat some of the moves that once might have been considered original, but not now. For all of the above, I enjoyed the book. The author doesn't make the characters into Conan or Hedin-like heroes, he just throws five guys and girls who are frightened and hardened by their prejudices into the great outside world, giving them wise but secretive people to guide them.
Jordan does not play philosophy and intelligence, but rather tries to give the work a touch of thriller and Indiana (well, that Jones), so that there are always acrobatic tricks on the brink of the foul, the illusion of deadly danger. With enviable ease the author, then throws pianos on the heads of heroes, then on the contrary hides the pianos in the bushes. There is even a feeling of playfulness, but so natural and unconcealed that one does not even want to be indignant. Everything here is exactly as it should be, as expected. You can see that the writer has once defined the framework of the genre and decided not to deviate from them as much as possible. And I hope that those limits were only in the mind of a 42-year-old writer, and in subsequent years blurred, otherwise it will not be funny at all. And if a philosophy suddenly appears, it will be more convoluted than these poetic masterpieces (although some of them are not bad):
Heroes have a nasty habit of dying heroically.
This was not the first time she had found a meaning in his words that he had never put into them
If you watch the wolf too hard, the mouse will bite your ankle.
It's easier to be brave when someone needs your protection.
Death is lighter than a feather, duty is heavier than a mountain.
Keep me light from men who think with chest hair
Gray hair is not a crust on the brain
Caution and long life go hand in hand
What I particularly liked was the self-sufficiency of the book, its completeness. Yes, readers are well aware that there will be a next one, and more than one, and we have many adventures ahead of us. But in this particular piece of writing, that stands as a period. Finita la comedy. And while in the beginning we only had three jerks and two proud and sarcastic s...lavalier girls, by the end of the book the characters have opened up and even blossomed. Though one of the three guys remained a moron.) I won't speak about the rest of the heroes, they are already grown up and quite established, their story is over for me, even if they will be present in other books.
I think this book and the series would have belonged when I first became acquainted with Tolkien, became temporarily interested in Perumov and was already seriously interested in Pratchett. It's not that the book is for a certain age, or that it needs to be "outgrown," but that the genre doesn't stand still, and even some earlier works by other writers have pushed the boundaries of fantasy, showing it in more than just black and white. Hardened by Le Guin, Jelazny, Martin, and even a simple Pehov, I'm already weaned off the friend-enemy-traitor scheme. But going back to the roots is always useful, and this tome left a slight sense of satisfaction and a desire to return to the cycle again after a while.
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