Summary: I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.
You may have heard of me.
My thoughts: In every story made, whether via book, show, movie, etc., there is always a way for it to get better. From characters to plot points, there’s ways to enhance a story. In this way, I don’t think I could ever call any piece of art form perfect (even Breaking Bad). With that being said, I would have to dig deep, re-read, and make immense, detailed notes in order to find something to improve about The Name of the Wind.
I like all kinds of books, but when it really comes down to it, a hero’s journey is what I love to read about the most. And a hero’s journey is what I got in Kvothe/Kote’s story. What makes it more interesting is that this isn’t the beginning of a journey. Technically the story within the story starts from the beginning, but the actual story isn’t about beginnings. In fact, it almost sounds like it’s close to the end. And because everyone (in the story) knows different parts of his journey, he’s already become a legend, which is not an aspect I’m used to reading about when learning about the beginnings of a hero. This means that from the start, Kote sounded too good to be true. But when he started to tell his story, and it differentiated from the amazing adventures of the legendary Kvothe, his authenticity and lack of perfection made me love him even more than if the legends had been 100% true.
It was exciting to see the beginnings of a legend. And to see how the art of storytelling truly is a huge part of everyone’s culture, fictional or otherwise. And the importance of words! The Name of the Wind shows that there is truly a power behind the name of something, and that there is magic in understanding. Also, the world building is AMAZING; the story’s intense, and just about every character in this book could have a successful (spinoff) book.
What’s really amazing is that 672 pages later, I can say that I’ve read a fantastic book, but I still don’t understand how Kvothe turned into the man Kote. He lived a lot of life in the story within the story of The Name of the Wind, but it’s barely just the tip of the iceberg.
Extra Love –
- The University he attends: It’s like Hogwarts in the real world.
- Speaking of words, Patrick Rothfuss really knows how to use them:
A Silence of Three Parts
It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumns leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamour one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music… but no of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.
Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.
The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long-dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.
The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. They Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.