Fiction is stuffed full of heroes. Heroes of all shapes and sizes, a vast range of heroes, to solve the vast range of problems thrown up and, more importantly, to reflect the characteristics admired by the storyteller. The strong, the brave, the hard worker, the kind, the generous, the beautiful, the skilled, the extraordinarily gifted and the intelligent.
The Intelligent Hero, who achieves heroic ends by being the smartest person around. Who’s heroic ends are being the smartest person around.
There are also various subdivisions of intelligent hero, of which these are a(n incomplete and unresearched) selection:
I hear the sweat dripping from my eyelashes, drop after sticky drop. Splashing. My shirt turns dark and then shiny, glistening as the sweat freezes. I feel no less heat.
I daren’t look in a mirror, daren’t see the sparkling beads of perspiration, glinting ruby red, crystallising on my flushed face, daren’t see the vapor leaving my lips, my boiling, burning lips.
I won’t be found until spring. I won’t be found until the frost has cleared, the sun has warmed the ground and new life has emerged from winters death. I won’t be found until the cold has turned to heat.
“But for fans of the tame, the inoffensive, the presentably decent, we are surely entering what you would call a golden age – were gold not too polarisingly brash a shade. Let us herald it as a Beige Age, then – an age of “send us your snow pictures”, the revived heyday of “gentle comedy”, with gentle being a synonym for “no”. It is an age crystallised by the deeply imitable Michael McIntyre, whom Daily Mail readers would gladly allow to have sex with their granddaughter.”—Marina Hyde