It began at the University. I went to learn magic of the sort they talk about in stories. Magic like Taborlin the Great. I wanted to learn the name of the wind. I wanted fire and lightning. I wanted answers to ten thousand questions and access to their archives. But what I found at the University was much different than a story, and I was much dismayed.I work in a book store, and through the course of a regular shift, there will be those customers who are looking for recommendations and those who want to tell me about the books that they're enjoying. As Fantasy isn't really a focus of my own reading, I listen to what people are enthusiastic about, and when someone has pressed me for a new Fantasy series, I have long said, “I haven't read it myself, but I hear ridiculously high praise about The Name of the Wind.” A silver-haired gentleman once told me that he started the book one day, thought it was a little slow, and when he picked it up again the next day, he had to call in sick to work because he needed to find out what happened next. Based on my retelling of that anecdote, I had a young man buy the book and come back a week later for the sequel: this was the best, he enthused. Deciding I should do better than, “I haven't read it myself, but...”, I finally picked up The Name of the Wind, and now I'm in a pickle: it didn't really blow me away and I can't in good conscience use it as my go-to Fantasy recommendation anymore. Sigh.
The plot and structure of The Name of the Wind is pretty straightforward: As it begins, we meet an innkeeper of a tiny village, and as he interacts with his few customers, we learn that the setting is medievalish (with smithys and mercenaries and simple superstitions); and we also learn that sometimes the demons of folklore can come to life. Soon enough, a renowned Chronicler arrives on the scene, and he recognises the humble innkeeper for who he really is: Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, the Kvothe Kingkiller of legend and song. With little cajoling, Kvothe agrees to tell his life story to Chronicler; informing the scribe that the entire tale will take three days to tell (and it was immediately obvious that this first volume of the trilogy would cover the first day of storytelling). As Kvothe narrates his life, the perspective shifts to first person, and intermittently, the perspective switches back to third person when there is a pause in the narrative for clarification or small breaks. This device worked fine.
I liked Kvothe's story of growing up in a travelling troupe of actors and musicians, and found his time studying with the tagalong arcanist Abenthy to be a satisfying way to introduce the ways of “sympathy” (science-based magic); it sets the character up to have a unique knowledge-set that includes all the old legends and the practical applications of esoterica – this is useful background info, organically divulged. I was less enchanted by his pointless years on the mean streets of Tarbean, and had to roll my eyes at Kvothe suddenly remembering his destiny, his travels to the University, and his brilliant entrance exam that resulted in the admissions committee paying the unschooled fifteen-year-old to attend his first term. And things kind of went down from there.
For the rest of his first day of reminiscing, Kvothe focusses on his first few terms at the University, his constant fight against poverty, both the academic brilliance that wins him allies and the unthinking missteps that earn him powerful foes, and of course, the bloom of first love for an unattainable young lady. His talents are unbelievably great, his obstacles are unbelievably arbitrary, and his heart is unbelievably pure. Naturally, I didn't believe any of it.
As for the writing: Patrick Rothfuss creates smooth sentences – this was a quick and easy read despite the length – but they lacked whatever X-Factor it takes for me to sense great writing. And I didn't like the number of times he'd end a chapter with something like, “I thought that I had saved the day but little did I know what I had stirred up”. And I grew more and more irritated every time Kvothe would say something like:
As I stood there, it occurred to me how foolish the hope was. What had I hoped to find? A footprint? A scrap of cloth from someone's cloak? Some crumpled note with a vital piece of information conveniently written out for me to find? That sort of thing only happened in stories.This “only in stories” business would feel more meta or ironic if Kvothe didn't keep reminding us of it. And as for my biggest complaint: I hated the way the females were portrayed in this book, and that's not some pet grievance I spend any amount of time seeking out – I can totally handle an all-male cast with undeveloped secondary females, they can even all be wives and serving wenches if the author is trying to make them fade into the background and I won't complain, but I do object to the semblance of strong female characters who are actually only waiting around to be saved by Kvothe; two young women, in two different situations, literally needing to be thrown over his shoulder and hauled to safety.
I was just standing there. Like one of those silly girls in those stories my mother used to read me. I always hated them. I always used to ask, 'Why doesn't she push the witch out the window? Why doesn't she poison the ogre's food? Why does she just sit there waiting to be saved? Why doesn't she save herself?'Mmm hmm. Poor Fela wouldn't act like silly girls do in stories. Except this isn't a story. (Except it is. Winnnnk.) Denna is regarded as strong (because she supports herself through the attentions of wealthy young men?), but as a woman, you can't really put her in the same phylum or genus as normal menfolk:
You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while.Or maybe another dehumanising analogy is required:
“Denna is a wild thing," I explained. "Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don't say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna.”Nevermind that Rothfuss then has Kvothe explain to his friends what a “hind” is (gah to that), other than her breathtaking beauty, Kvothe has no reason to keep chasing Denne (or, you know, standing still in a clearing until the poor frightened thing comes to him. Gah.) And speaking of overexplaining that made me think Rothfuss assumed I was too dumb to follow along: I didn't need to be reminded repeatedly about the book Kvothe had read about the common draccus; I would have understood he had some knowledge when one shows up if the book had only been mentioned once. (Yet why didn't Chronicler make some comment after recording the bit about the draccus if he's the one who wrote the book that Kvothe had read? Whatevs.)
Okay, less specifically: there wasn't a whole lot of world-building here; the setting is familiarly medieval with kings and barons and mayors and constables; farmers have their harvest festivals and there's a dominant church with a creation myth; there are a few otherworldly beings (the scrael, the Fae, the draccus), and I liked that rational people don't even believe they exist, but the people act like humans and the environs feel like Earth. And here's my biggest BIGGEST problem: there was simply no dramatic tension. Kvothe is narrating his life story – so we know that he survives everything to tell it – and despite him ending the first day's narration with, We have all the groundwork now. The foundation of a story to build upon, this lengthy book is a long way to go for a preamble; one without a proper story arc; no tension and resulting satisfying resolution. You can say that the arc will play out over the next two books, but that doesn't make me excited for the second installment – in which we know nothing bad will happen to Kvothe in the present so he can make it to the third book, and that he must, of course, have survived whatever he will be narrating about the past – but without a release date for the final volume on the horizon, I can't see me carrying on with the series. And I'm left without a handy Fantasy recommendation. Sigh.
To be fair, I did like the very end of the book, when Kvothe's student/assistant Bast had a heart-to-heart with Chronicler:
I swear by the night sky and the ever-moving moon: if you lead my master to despair, I will slit you open and splash around like a child in a muddy puddle. I'll string a fiddle with your guts and make you play it while I dance.If only it hadn't taken 661 pages to get to the most interesting line.
