On Eragon (the book)
For the past couple weeks I have been voraciously devouring a fantasy book. The events are set in a land long ago filled with dragons, destiny, and devilry. Eragon, written by the prodigy Christopher Paolini, tells the story of a young boy who is chosen by fate to inherit the legacy of the Dragon Riders. By more than mere coincidence he stumbles onto what he later finds out is a dragon egg. When the egg hatches, he touches the cute little dragon and a bolt of electricity charges through his body, fusing his being with that of the dragons. Eragon’s adventure then begins.
Throughout the tale, the connection between Eragon and his dragon Saphira is intoxicatingly witnessed. Directly from this strange relationship Eragon is imbued with a mounting strength of mind, body, and spirit. He gains the ability of telepathy and converses with Saphira and other creatures as easily as two humans chat. The physical and spiritual strengths obtained from the relationship extend far beyond that of a normal human. He is able, among a multitude of other things, to shoot bursts of light at enemies and heal battle wounds. Eragon’s courage and wisdom is cultivated in leaps and bounds as he takes to the air in his destiny with Saphira.
As I read this brilliant and exhilarating tale there was a great swelling that began to take place somewhere deep within. It was a thing that I could feel but not truly touch at first, nor comprehend. The rising tide was similar to that which I experienced when reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Chronicle of Narnia, and other such books of adventure and wonder. I have only now begun to touch those swelling waters, in fact, they will soon engulf me I think…yet I still