Review: The Name of the Wind
The Name of the Wind
By Patrick Rothfuss
By Patrick Rothfuss
Patrick Rothfuss is a genius. Okay, maybe a mad genius (I don't actually
know the man personally, but I laugh out loud at his blogs), because anyone who
can create such brilliant (as in glowing beacons of personality) characters in
a world so well-drawn I didn't once raise an eyebrow and go "huh?" is
a truly gifted storyteller of the most unexpected variety.
Most of the high fantasy I've read was in
college, usually during dead week and finals, and generally six-book series
that sucked me in, wrung me out, and tossed me back to the real world to wander
around on shaky legs until I remembered who I was. But that was college where everything is
surreal and in technicolor, and those were authors like Orson Scott Card,
Stephen Donaldson, Frank Herbert and Piers Anthony.
And then along comes Patrick Rothfuss. And just like those friends you make when you
think you've made all the best friends you'll ever need, I was a little shocked
to have found a new favorite author and a new favorite book. Kvothe, the storyteller-within-the-story, has
such a compelling voice that I sometimes forget I'm not curled up by the fire
in his Inn listening to him speak. And
the tales he tells bring me so completely on his journeys with him that feeding kids, dog, and chickens are tasks that have to be written on the post-its I use to keep my place in the book.
The Name of the Wind is not just the
beginning. It is a book that I look
forward to re-reading with each installment of the trilogy that emerges from
the wonder that is the brain, imagination and artist that is Patrick
Rothfuss.