Stephanie S. (skywriter319) -
Youve all felt it at one point or another. The desire. The craving. The urge to go to bed with a book. The new hardcover whose jacket youve taken off for safekeeping; falling asleep with one hand splayed over its naked, embossed cover. An old favorite, its edges worn and soft to the touch; it fits perfectly in the space beside you on your wrinkled sheets.
At around 700 pages, THE NAME OF THE WIND is the perfect shape and story to sleep with.
(At least, I assume it would be, as I read this on an e-reader.)
Even without the tangible reassurance of a physical copy, THE NAME OF THE WIND easily slid into its position as my new favorite book. Somewhere in an alternate universe, J. K. Rowling and George R. R. Martin had a literary lovechild, who somehow stowed away on a ship bound for Earth, assumed the human name of Patrick Rothfuss, and, after wandering, bard-like, through many years of higher education, discovered the secret to turning words and ideas into gold.
Remember those sleepaway camps and public library programs you attended when you were young, the ones where the performer would gather you and the other kids round the sleepy campfire or colorful hand-sewn rug? Remember how, at first, you were suspicious of this stranger with the odd hair or scruffy beard or clothing that audibly ruffled whenever he shifted positions? Remember how his voice sounded unfamiliar at first, unlike the dulcet tones of your own parents telling you bedtime stories? And then remember how, before you knew it, you were so far immersed into the story you forgot who was telling it and found yourself leaning forward, hanging on to his every mesmerizing word?
Thats kind of how THE NAME OF THE WIND was for me. The third-person beginning section was a little awkward, as I wasnt sure how I was supposed to feel about this Kote/Kvothe character. But as Kvothe stretched out his long-unused storytelling muscles and the book eased its loving way into first-person narration, I found myself as entranced as Chronicler and Bast were, sitting in that inn and listening to the never-before-told story of a contemporary legend.
He has a sexy voice, what can I say?
I could mention some minor quibbles I had with the book, like Kvothes unfortunate near-perfect-ness, or how Denna skirts the edge of geeky-adolescent-boys MPDG wet dream, but it totally and completely doesnt even matter because dont you know that the greatest artists can break all the rules? THE NAME OF THE WIND is an epic novel, part memoir, part boarding school tale, part wild adventure, and I just know that Kvothes world is only going to expand from here in future installments. Recommended for anyone and everyone anywhereexcept for maybe that hipster classmate of yours with the I-just-got-out-of-bed-no-really-I-just-did messy hair and black Free Trade coffee perpetually in hand who refuses to read anything that hasnt won the Nobel, Pulitzer, or Man Booker Prize. But who wants to be reading buddies with them anyway?
At around 700 pages, THE NAME OF THE WIND is the perfect shape and story to sleep with.
(At least, I assume it would be, as I read this on an e-reader.)
Even without the tangible reassurance of a physical copy, THE NAME OF THE WIND easily slid into its position as my new favorite book. Somewhere in an alternate universe, J. K. Rowling and George R. R. Martin had a literary lovechild, who somehow stowed away on a ship bound for Earth, assumed the human name of Patrick Rothfuss, and, after wandering, bard-like, through many years of higher education, discovered the secret to turning words and ideas into gold.
Remember those sleepaway camps and public library programs you attended when you were young, the ones where the performer would gather you and the other kids round the sleepy campfire or colorful hand-sewn rug? Remember how, at first, you were suspicious of this stranger with the odd hair or scruffy beard or clothing that audibly ruffled whenever he shifted positions? Remember how his voice sounded unfamiliar at first, unlike the dulcet tones of your own parents telling you bedtime stories? And then remember how, before you knew it, you were so far immersed into the story you forgot who was telling it and found yourself leaning forward, hanging on to his every mesmerizing word?
Thats kind of how THE NAME OF THE WIND was for me. The third-person beginning section was a little awkward, as I wasnt sure how I was supposed to feel about this Kote/Kvothe character. But as Kvothe stretched out his long-unused storytelling muscles and the book eased its loving way into first-person narration, I found myself as entranced as Chronicler and Bast were, sitting in that inn and listening to the never-before-told story of a contemporary legend.
He has a sexy voice, what can I say?
I could mention some minor quibbles I had with the book, like Kvothes unfortunate near-perfect-ness, or how Denna skirts the edge of geeky-adolescent-boys MPDG wet dream, but it totally and completely doesnt even matter because dont you know that the greatest artists can break all the rules? THE NAME OF THE WIND is an epic novel, part memoir, part boarding school tale, part wild adventure, and I just know that Kvothes world is only going to expand from here in future installments. Recommended for anyone and everyone anywhereexcept for maybe that hipster classmate of yours with the I-just-got-out-of-bed-no-really-I-just-did messy hair and black Free Trade coffee perpetually in hand who refuses to read anything that hasnt won the Nobel, Pulitzer, or Man Booker Prize. But who wants to be reading buddies with them anyway?
