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.
