At first, it seemed like he did. Lucas started the story with A New Hope in the middle of things -- in medias res, a time-honored literary device that served Homer and Vergil (among others) well. It just drops you into the action and expects you to keep up, a little exposition from Menelaus here, a little flashback action to the fall of Troy there, and everything eventually comes into focus. Lucas didn’t give us a whole lot of background on Vader, because he didn’t need to; Vader is the enemy, he’s all in black, and once we find out that he turned evil (versus being born that way), and that he’s Luke and Leia’s father, voila, depth. It could have stopped there, and probably should have.
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
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