The Wheel of Time

I remember my first time reading Robert Jordan. The book was "The Wheel of Time," a chunky, compact novel whose eye-catching cover featured a man on horseback wearing what looked like samurai armor. I read it in one sitting. Then I read the next. And the next. And so on and on, until I had read enough pages of Robert Jordan to fill two good-sized Bibles and small Koran besides.

Did I like the stuff? I think I did. Though I recognized the derivative elements--might as well calls Trollocs orcs and be done with it--I liked the sweep and complexity of Jordan's world. Most of all, I liked putting myself in the story, imagining what my character would have done in this or that situation. Inevitably, I used my super powers to smash the bad guys, often in very bloody ways. My altar-ego never wound up with a girl, but that was OK. Girls were gross.

My flirtation--no, my affair--with Robert Jordan ended in the seventh book. This, as dedicated Jordainaires may recall, was when characters started traveling through the dimensional portals that inexplicably popped up everywhere. It was getting a little too weird. Plus, it was impossible to keep track of the dozens of characters without a guide. I realized this when I tried to explain the plot of the fourth book to my parents. It took me fifteen minutes alone to introduce the characters.

Now, years later, this article brought me back to those days. Though the author is right to describe the later books as "a study in inertia," it's good to relive my career slaughtering Draghkars and battling Gray Men.