The Name of the Wind

So I just completed a marathon book reading last night of Patrick Rothfuss’(Rothfusses? Rothfuss’s? Rothfussssss’) The Name of the Wind. Since I completely bit off more than I could chew, I needed to let it stew overnight and digest.
So first: I chose to read this book because of a.) the book’s insert (see below) and b.) the ridiculous amount of excitement surrounding it.

My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as “quothe.” Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I’ve had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it’s spoken, can mean The Flame, The Thunder, or The Broken Tree.

“The Flame” is obvious if you’ve ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it’s unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire.

“The Thunder” I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age.

I’ve never thought of “The Broken Tree” as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic.

My first mentor called me E’lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them.

But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant “to know.”

I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned.

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.

The Name of the Wind is an immense book. In the wrong hands, it could very well be a deadly weapon. While some may say it is simply too long with little action, I say that Mr. Rothfuss is setting the stage for what I’m sure is to be an excellent series. As I cracked open the book, I noticed it had a map..usually I get the impression that maps are a little stuffy, but the funny little image of a fat man and overburdened donkey in the corner was a sign: It was going to be a Good Book.

The story opens with Innkeeper Kote and his mysterious student/companion Bast. They live in small village and travel between has been getting harder and harder, meaning the inn is rarely busy–its usual patrons being those that live in town. One day a man stumbles in, bloodied and beaten, and throws a sack on the table, claiming he was attacked by demons and brought back proof. Kote immediately identifies the dead “demon” as scrael, and reminds them that iron will keep the beasts at bay…or at least, that’s what he heard. This odd volunteering of information is the first sign of Kote’s “inkeeper” facade wearing thin. He goes out the next day, alone, to clear the infestation of monstrous black spiders in the woods, where he runs into a man known as Chronicler.

Chronicler claims he has finally found the person he is looking for..Kvothe. The usually taciturn innkeeper vehemently continues to deny this while Chronicler becomes more and more determined that he thinks to himself “I believe it… Before it was just a story, but now I can believe it. This is the face of a man who has killed an angel.”

After quite a bit of back-and-forth, we find that Kote the innkeeper is the same legendary Kvothe, who is the center of many stories, both true and false. Kvothe agrees to tell Chronicler his version of the mythical stories–but in return, Chronicler must write exactly as Kvothe dictates for three days. In this way, the book switches from third to first person, and back again on occasion. Rothfuss artfully weaves a maze of story so profound that the only choice is to get lost in it; then jerks us back to present when Kote suddenly has patrons at the inn, or when it is time for a meal.

Kote begins with his childhood as one of the Edema Ruh, or traveling players, with his loving parents and early tutelage with his first teacher (who he once spied calling the wind, and becomes determined to learn how himself). He eventually winds up as a beggar in a crime infested city, and after several years makes a desperate gamble to apply for the University–his desire being to learn all he can about the mysterious and deadly Chandrian, while also becoming a Master Arcanist and Namer, learning the names of all things–including the wind.

While this doesn’t even begin to give The Name of the Wind the credit it deserves, it’s a start. Mr. Rothfuss lays the groundwork for what is sure to be an excellent sequel. What made Kvothe, an extraordinary young man, decide to hide in a small village posing as an innkeeper? What’s the deal with “Folly”? What is in the box in his room that needs to have 3 locks? How did he meet Bast, and why is Bast his student? Whatever happens with his lady love?…And my list goes on.

While I have seen many comparisons to Harry Potter, (school of magic, eccentric professors, bully/rival) and other series, Rothfuss’ writing is clearly his own. Not once when I was reading did I think “this reminds me of ____”. In hindsight, yes, I can see the Harry Potter comparisons, but that would like putting the real Brothers Grimm  tales next to Disney’s versions. Rothfuss’ world is dark, gritty, and not always very happy. It is definitely an adult read.

Rothfuss should also be lauded for his excellent, excellent writing–a true wordsmith. I’ve listed a quotable quotes below for your enjoyment, but to perhaps get the best idea of the book is to read an excerpt.

“I also felt guilty about the three pens I’d stolen. And since there was no convenient way to give them back, I stole a bottle of ink before I left.”

“Dianne is a waterfall of spark pouring off a sharp iron edge God is holding to the grindstone. You can’t help but look, can’t help but want it. You might even put your hand to it for a second. But you can’t hold it. She’ll break your heart….”

“The 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.”