No Purer Artist Exists Or Has Ever

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

Shake Your Fist All You Want But Dead Is Dead

Death Cannot Be Struggled Against, Brother. It Ever Arrives, Defiant Of Every Hiding Place, Of Every Frantic Attempt To Escape. Death Is Every Mortal's Shadow, His True Shadow, And Time Is Its Servant, Spinning That Shadow Slowly Round, Until What Stretched Behind One Now Stretches Before Him.

With The Black Company Series Glen Cook Single-handedly Changed The Face Of Fantasy—something A Lot Of People Didn’t Notice And Maybe Still Don’t. He Brought The Story Down To A Human Level, Dispensing With The Cliché Archetypes Of Princes, Kings, And Evil Sorcerers. Reading His Stuff Was Like Reading Vietnam War Fiction On Peyote.

A Story Invites Both Writer And Reader Into A Kind Of Superficial Ease: We Want To Slide Along, Pleasingly Entertained, Lost In The Fictional Dream.