While I was sick, I began going over the principal points of my long-deferred essai on the Fantasy Big Bang of 1977. I had already read (or watched) all the really seminal English-language fantasy works of that year, except for The Sword of Shannara. I have therefore been plodding through that distinctive if not distinguished work. It is actually a very good sort of book to read while one is sick and depressed, because it reconciles one to the brevity of life and makes death a happier prospect than it seemed before. In Heaven there are no such books, and in Hell all books will burn.
You may surmise from this that I shall have more to say on this subject later.