The Name of the Wind

***Note: Fantasy book reviews are traditionally longer, and this review might be the even-longer exception to the rule. If you intend to read this, be aware that I plan on giving this book credit where all the credit is due, despite the fairly lengthy word count.*** 

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The Name of the Wind, the first book in The Kingkiller Chronicle series by Patrick Rothfuss, is an epic fantasy story that follows a boy named Kvothe, known by many other names and renowned for infamous rumours and stretched truths. Told over the course of one day in his tavern, the Waystone Inn, Kvothe recounts his life as he reminisces and laments on tragedy, young love, the wonders and follies of adolescence and magic, and so much more in this beautiful coming of age story.

Rothfuss is a master at world-building through storytelling, seamlessly pivoting in between world history, past experiences, and present day events without ever droning on or giving you an encyclopedia of information about the themes and his magic systems. There are many wisdoms throughout the book, from Kvothe’s childhood all the way through his adolescent days at the University. I love seeing the world through his wonder-filled eyes, when he is young and naive and unimpressed with the inner workings of sympathy. He says it best when he is contemplating the simplicity of it, and his undying thirst for that “. . . storybook magic . . . the secret [he] wanted more than anything” (Rothfuss, 96). Kvothe’s search for the name of the wind begins here, unbeknownst to our young protagonist, a seed planted early on that comes to fruition later in the story. Throughout the story, there are countless nods and lessons from people in his past that define him in the present day.

Interweaved with present day events, the reader meets a weathered and worn “Kote,” shrouded in mystery in a land that is entering unsettling times. From the beginning, the story emphasizes heavily the roles he plays as an actor from childhood to adulthood. Keeping up his facade as an ordinary tavernkeep, the reader understands right away that there are some deeper truths lurking beneath the surface, in this man’s silences and distant eyes, a man that looks unusually old and tired for his age:

“Underneath, Kote’s expression was haunted, eyes half in this world, half elsewhere, remembering” (Rothfuss, 46).

The world is chock full of fun, wholesome, frustrating and mysterious characters as well, all dynamic and interesting in their own unique ways, with their own set of secrets, strengths, and flaws. Chronicler and Bast, the other two main characters of the present day story, are an unlikely duo that shares Kvothe’s company as he tells his story. I love how each of them, like Kvothe, have reputations that precede them, other hidden sides to themselves that make them complex as well. Bast is Kvothe’s companion and pupil, a disguised Fae with his own secrets and motives. Chronicler is a storyteller that is humbled by the legend that is Kvothe and his life, eager to record his story but ignorant to the sensitive topics surrounding his hardships and even his abilities. Something that stuck with me is when Bast is speaking to Chronicler about the blindness of men and the truths and lies we tell ourselves:

“You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be” (Rothfuss, 657). 

A coming of age story would be lacking without its heated rivalries and resentments, and Rothfuss doesn’t disappoint here, either. Kvothe develops a distaste for Master Hemme on day one, a feeling that is indeed mutual and evident during Kvothe’s University interview, and is seen in the tit for tat between them in the classroom following their humble beginnings. His first encounter with Master Lorren is also rocky, as seen when he pries about Kvothe’s troupe background and insinuates that he doesn’t belong at the University.

Ambrose quickly becomes a pest and a terror during Kvothe’s years at the University, as they go round for round trying to humiliate each other and do wild things to try to get the other expelled. Kvothe always answers adversity with his spitfire personality and oftentimes rash actions as he seeks revenge against those out to get him, and if anyone is the rule and not the exception, it’s Ambrose. There are countless fun encounters between them in the book, including but certainly not limited to, the “Jackass, Jackass” chapter, Kvothe’s apology letter—charged with spiteful condescension—to Ambrose in an attempt to one-up his rival, and Ambrose’s attempts to bar Kvothe from performing in any respectable tavern within a fifty-mile radius. Things even take darker turns than these as the two constantly try to best one another and Kvothe realizes he has severely underestimated his enemy. But the constant remains, Ambrose being the antagonist foil to Kvothe’s protagonist actor personna, always good at spinning a narrative and garnering sympathy in some dramatic way.

Among some of the kindest characters is definitely Trapis, a generous and patient man who cares for ill and orphaned children in the city. His patience and tenderness is something to be admired, and something to aspire to become great at in a harsh and unforgiving world. He is the “almost” home that Kvothe didn’t know he needed, in a time where he was forced to learn that regret never leaves you, and no one can be trusted and all that matters is survival.

Another sweet timid soul is Auri, the wandering girl that hides in the shadows and the lover of Kvothe’s music, who listens to him play on the roof on beautiful moonlit nights. Their encounters are always innocent and joyful, and their gift exchanges are always so whimsical and heartwarming, like when Auri says she brought Kvothe the key to the moon, and he gives a poetic response about what’s in the water he brought her:

“Flowers . . . And the part of the moon that isn’t in the sky tonight . . . And the shine off the back of a dragonfly” (Rothfuss, 354).

The story also wouldn’t be complete without good friends. Kvothe finds an unlikely but welcoming group in Simmon, Will, Savoy, and Manet, and their exchanges are always filled with pleasant jabs and banter that young boys get up to—though Manet is the professional student that has been a beginner arcanist for a number of years at the University, solely because he is happy where he is, without the burden of full arcanist status and the expectations that come with it.

There are moments that are hard to explain and very beautiful as well, even down to the way Master Elodin describes the names of things:

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power . . . But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself” (Rothfuss, 617). 

Through his eccentric behaviors and teachings, I usually have a belly laugh or two, but his deep-seated wisdom always resonates long after the humor fades. Through many wild tests, encounters and conversations with Elodin, Kvothe learns some invaluable lessons, even if they are unbeknownst to him at first. It’s hard to pick one favorite character in the book, but if I picked one besides Kvothe, it would definitely be Master Elodin.

My absolute favorite thing that Rothfuss does is with his prologue and epilogue, which are both titled the same, with the same structure but with different descriptions of a silence in three distinct parts that tell so much with just a single page. I also enjoy the choice to name chapters after phrases within their respective chapters. Some of my favorites are the shortest ones, and the feelings they elicit. Some are as simple as describing a beautiful day, and others, like “All This Knowing,” are poems in themselves (not even a page long) that encapsulate the beauty of youth and brotherhood so perfectly it makes me nostalgic for something I’ve never dreamed of wanting to feel until I read it. Another favorite is “Worthy of Pursuit,” the chapter where Kvothe watches a note from Denna as it dances around the courtyard at the University, a place he goes to seek answers:

It danced along the cobblestones. It circled and spun, making patterns too wild and varied for me to understand. But though I waited until the sky grew dark, the wind never took it away. When I left, my question was still wandering in the House of the Wind, giving no answers, hinting at many. Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon” (Rothfuss, 653).  

Rothfuss has a way of describing things that has never been done before, that paints the picture so vividly it goes infinitely above and beyond my previous experiences and expectations. A fine example—of infinite ones, I can assure you—is when Kvothe describes how it feels when Denna smiles at him:

“I honestly cannot think of how I could describe it. Lying would be easier. I could steal from a hundred stories and tell you a lie so familiar you would swallow it whole. I could say my knees went to rubber. That my breath came hard in my chest. But that would not be the truth. My heart did not pound or stop or stutter. That is the sort of thing they say happens in stories. Foolishness. Hyperbole. Tripe. But still . . .” (Rothfuss, 387). 

Some other humorous and lighthearted moments are when Kvothe pretends to be a snobby noble’s son to get some nice clothes and when Kvothe meets Denna for the first time, the young woman that has captured young Kvothe’s attention and affections, the only one that never ceases to render Kvothe speechless. The sweet exchange about Kvothe knowing where he’s going and Denna having no clue was an innocent first encounter, and the description of her in the moonlight from his point of view was a beautiful visual and window into Kvothe’s feelings about her. She is also there when Kvothe has one of his first emotional experiences after playing a borrowed lute, a reminder that the past is still very much real and raw for him. 

I love the times that Kvothe performs and spends time with his friends at the Eolian, a place where he seeks recognition and tavern-wide renown as a performer. This is also the place that begins to center around various encounters with the elusive but endearing Denna. She becomes an unpredictable and frustrating presence in his life, but she also becomes a source of naive hopes and daydreams for Kvothe as a young boy in love. Denna never puts down roots, and is known by many names as well, a sort of mirror to Kvothe. One of my favorite moments is the duet they unknowingly sing together during his trouper-style rendition of a fifteen-minute song of great difficulty, and his awe when he discovers that it was Denna all along. I also love the trancelike state he enters as the world falls away and he plays through a blunder and broken string in his song, and when he abruptly begins to weep when he reaches the end of the song. I also laughed when Kvothe’s friend Simmon, who is practically bawling after his performance, tells him to never play the song again without warning him first.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the myths and legends of the demons of the world coming to life, and so quickly. The Chandrian would make a mark on Kvothe’s childhood that would follow him the rest of his existence, and would send him on his path as a former troupe member, a lonely orphan, and a young boy struggling to prove himself at the University, who yearns to find answers to prove that the mystery surrounding what was thought to be mere children’s stories isn’t just a fairytale. Rothfuss doesn’t shy away from showing the dark sides of magic in his world, the life-threatening consequences that often come with it. The enemies live through—and feed on—the fateful songs and whisperings throughout the story and the world that center around them, a nightmare that chills and horrifies at every twist and turn.     

Rothfuss’s foreshadowing, pacing, and buildup to his more complex and heavy scenes keeps you on your toes until the dreaded payoff in the chapters that follow. Forced to face tragedy at a young age, Kvothe’s path is never easy, filled with heart-shattering sadness and loneliness, as well as poverty and violence. It was hard to read about the first kindness he was shown by the old farmer being immediately soured by his first terrible run-in with the young street thugs, but the juxtaposition portrayed well. Rothfuss paints a sad and lonely picture of a worn and weary Kvothe, who is forced to live in shadows and sleep on town roofs to escape danger:

“I closed my eyes and tried not to remember what it was like to go to sleep warm and full, surrounded by people who loved you” (Rothfuss, 138).

Despite his troubled past, Kvothe isn’t shy about his greatness. He is keenly aware that he is a young man of legend, who has received many accolades—some made up by him, some actually based in some truth—surrounding his words and actions. A fine example of his fearless nature is when the truth is revealed about how he prepared for his University admissions interview, and when he boldly declares that the Masters should pay him to attend instead of the other way around, being the fifteen-year-old prodigy he believes he already is. His silver tongue and his lack of a long fuse always land him in interesting situations, but you have to love him for being so bold and unapologetic while he does it.   

One of the running themes throughout the story is Kvothe’s neverending search for Denna, the naive hope that he’ll see her again. When Kvothe tells Denna that he’ll see her where the roads meet, it begs the question: When will they meet? and this single question is one of the many reasons I kept reading. The certainty that Kvothe has in being able to find her when he seeks her out represents one of Kvothe’s biggest follies as a young man. But with reflection, Kvothe understands his ignorance, as well as his inclination to hope, “[h]ow young he was. How foolish. How wise” (Rothfuss, 445). When we’re young, we all want to believe that our wildest dreams will come true, that our first love will be our one and only love, and there is something so beautiful and fleeting about it all, the state of mind where you’re so sure yet so lost. 

I love the parts of the book that center around Kvothe’s musical background and talents, a sacred art form that is engrained in his identity. It’s no wonder that the emotional events linked to his instrument cause him so much pain and stir something even greater inside him when he channels magic unknown to him for the first time. His father’s lute is a symbol of his past and his love for playing, and there are countless times throughout the story where this theme makes your heart soar, or worse, makes it shatter. The one thing that seems to cause a swell of emotion for Kvothe is the memory of having, or desperately wanting, a lute, and the memories of all the times music was a sanctuary, an escape from the harsh world. Each time he plays or performs, the scene is so vivid and raw, always emotional and vulnerable. Broken strings and heartbreak never stop him from pursuing his passion, and through his tears and even his bleeding fingers, he never ceases his pursuit of perfection. I’ve never seen playing described in the way Rothfuss does it when Kvothe’s talents surpass ordinary skill:

“I began to play something other than songs. When the sun warms the grass and the breeze cools you, it feels a certain way. I would play until I got the feeling right. I would play until it sounded like Warm Grass and Cool Breeze” (Rothfuss, 128).                 

One thing that Kvothe remains ever ignorant about is the subtleties of women, as seen with Fela after he is declared a hero for saving her in a fire incident, as well as his lack of awareness of Devi’s interest in him—not to mention the constant enigma that is Denna. The “flirtatious or friendly” mystery never ceases to elude young Kvothe throughout the story, which can be a point of entertaining frustrations as you hope that he gets the hidden messages behind Fela’s gift of a new cloak and Devi’s not-so-subtle hints about romantic matters. Though Kvothe doesn’t have a clue for the longest time, he thinks he’s so sharp, so well-versed in the ways of women and the world, which is relatable and laughable in equal measure as the author reminds us all of how it feels to be young.

One of the only complaints I’ve heard about this book is that the female characters are not well-rounded and they are lacking. I believe the “flatness” people speak of stems from Kvothe’s naive views of each of them, and that in a story told through the eyes of an adolescent boy, the perspective of women is going to be skewed, and purposefully so to fit the narrative. It is no secret that Kvothe suffers from adolescent hubris; he knows nothing of the opposite sex, and therefore his ideas of them might be naturally static and stereotypical, or just downright misinformed. I don’t think the story loses anything by portraying its characters the way it does, because I believe each female character possesses relatable and admirable traits. 

Denna is the elusive and troubled heroine that is still aimlessly searching for what she wants out of life in all the wrong places, who enjoys playing parts of her own and being a free-spirit who hides behind a smile and secretly hopes that someday the right person will come along to save her from herself, to help her find a place where she belongs. Fela is a beautiful, kind, and intelligent woman and student at the University who is thoughtful and deserving of respect and kindness. Though she may be silent in the face of a snotty nobleman, she is wise enough to preserve her reputation and to be confident in herself and her beliefs even when people treat her unfairly. Devi is a survivor, a self-reliant go-getter who doesn’t take any flak from anyone. She is thirsty for knowledge and good at what she does as the fantasy era equivalent of a loan shark. She drives hard bargains and is certain of what she wants and what she has to do to get it, despite being unable to woo an ignorant young Kvothe who thinks all women are merely “friendly.”    

As far as lack of female representation, I truly believe that Kvothe is just the perfect vessel through which to tell this story, and it just so happens to be more male-driven because of this, not because the author hates women or seeks to objectify them, but because he’s trying to show you how a young boy sees women at a particular age—or fails to see and understand them at all in his tireless pursuit of knowledge, revenge, and skill.      

It’s so hard to pin this book down as a single thing. The Name of the Wind is about youth. It’s about magic. It’s about triumphs. It’s about unspeakable tragedies. It’s about love. It’s about adolescent hubris. It’s about the stories we create about ourselves and the lies we tell others. It’s about rivalries and consequences. It’s about the indescribable beauty and the indifference of the world. Each new chapter is a journey in itself, and it’s still so much more than I can even begin to convey. Everything is so raw and heartbreaking, and equally beautiful in the most enjoyably painful way. Whether it’s half a page or a full-length chapter, Rothfuss can make me smile, laugh, think deeply, gasp, clutch my heart, fume and shake my head, and, sad but most of all, he can make me want to hurt anyone that’s ever done wrong by his beloved Kvothe at the drop of a hat.

Needless to say, I read this book very quickly; it was one of the most beautifully written and smooth fantasy reads I’ve ever experienced, and I daresay that I will ever experience. Rothfuss has a way of telling a lot while leaving even more waiting to be explored. I would honestly never get enough of this unbelievably beautiful world Rothfuss has built, that never ceases to inspire me and begs me to pick the book back up and read it again. The fact that I don’t know the half of it by the time the book ends makes me want to fixate on every crumb and every detail that will lead me to the truth of who Kvothe really is. My only complaint after such an unforgettable experience is that I can’t stay in Rothfuss’s world forever.   

Overall, I’m simply taken aback by the poetic way Rothfuss writes and describes things in this story, something that absolutely can’t be overstated if you’ve never read his work before. Even the dustjacket for the book is more intriguing than any dustjacket I’ve ever read, and I can honestly say I’ve never read anything like his writing, prose so beautiful and elaborate that I always wish I had thought of it first. To put it simply, Rothfuss’s father taught him a valuable lesson in taking one’s time and doing things right the first time, and it shows in The Name of the Wind, more so than in anything else I’ve ever read in my life so far. If you’re looking for high fantasy that flows like graceful poetry, that makes you think about things in a completely new way, where you easily get lost and become invested in everything and everyone in the world, I can’t recommend this book enough.  

Reference
Rothfuss, Patrick. The Name of the Wind. Daw Books, 2007.