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I just finished a new book by a new author Patrick Rothfuss a few months ago; the book is called The Name of the Wind.

I’ve been planning a long winded gushing review for weeks now, but circumstances prevented me from doing so. Prepare for the gush.

First off, and because I suffer from the delusion that you actually care, I feel the need to describe my reading of the last few months. It can be summed up like this: I’ve been avoiding epic fantasy like a solider avoids syphilis while on leave, and with a good deal more success I’d imagine as epic fantasy is easier to spot. It’s not because I dislike epic fantasy, but because of late I’ve found it unsatisfying. Lots of foreplay, little pay off. Not that I don’t like big men with big swords, I enjoy a phallic symbol as much as the next girl. But I’d like my men with swords to have some depth, my damsels to be smart enough to do their own rescuing from time to time, and my wise wizards to be able to do more then just spout off stuff that sounds like it came from some New Age book. What can I say, I am a chick, I like characters. Occasionally I get lucky, I won’t deny that. I run across a great piece of epic fantasy that sticks in my head for weeks on end, that I have to finish as soon as I pick it up. A book that makes me think, inspires me to pick up my own pen, and just generally gives me chills. The Name of the Wind does all that and more.

I rarely say this but this is the best epic fantasy book I’ve ever read. I knew from the jacket blurb I was going to like it, but after the prologue I was hooked. Here’s a sample.

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one excepts from a drinking house during the dark hours of the night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

The prologue is only one page, and involves that three kinds of silence, but the language is so lovely, so visual, and so spot on it drew me in immediately. And I was more surprised when I found that the first chunk of the story to about page 53 is written in third person, and involves the “current” story line. Eventually the main character, Kvothe, begins to tell the story that brought him to that moment to a scribe. He tells of his youth in an acting troupe, of his time living as an urchin in the city streets, and subsequently his acceptance into a university that teaches…well magic of course.

To anyone reading this and thinking they have it all pegged, or that this story reminds of them of hundreds of others, and there’s nothing new here. You’re wrong. I know, I thought the same thing.

Like I’ve said, I’ve rotted my brain with more epic fantasy then any one person should lay claim to. And at those moments when I thought I knew where he was going, I was proven wrong. Sure, there is that level of predictability. Rothfuss is dealing with archetypes here. But rather then showing you the same archetypes, we’re taken on a little journey in what it takes to make a myth. On the man behind that myth, and on all his flaws, and weakness, and loves and hates. Kvothe spends most of this book getting beaten down just as much as lifted into story. He’s just a child after all, one still learning about the world, and women, and politics.

And it’s not just the epic personality of Kvothe, it’s the mundane details, those little things that make a story so real, that really brings it to life. From money worries to actually having to relieve one’s self (will wonder’s never cease) he doesn’t forget those little things that make the story so much more vivid.

I found it fascinating the way he layered the first person and third person narrative. Part of the problem with writing in first person is that a level of suspense is taken from the story because you know that your main character isn’t going to die (at least not if the author’s following certain writing rules and let’s face it we all feel cheated when those rules are broken). But by playing that third person story line up to its full potential we get that drama back ten fold. A good portion of the theme in that part of the book is given over to the fact that Kvothe has told himself he’s just a humble tavern keeper, and since the stories we tell ourselves dictate who we are, that is what Kvothe is becoming. He’s losing those parts of himself that had been more, much more.

It’s not just emotional death we need to worry about. There is also the threat of some kind of demon spider, called a scraeling. Somehow these scraelings have something to do with Kvothe’s past, or he’s run across them before, but I feel there is a connection between him and them, perhaps one that will come out in later books.

Kvothe is himself one of the strongest characters I’ve seen since Jacqueline Carey’s Phedre in the Kushiel’s series. And it’s not just the strength of the character, but the excellent characterization that I’m impressed with. From the moment I read the book jacket I could hear Kvothe whispering in my ear, and every time I put the book down he called me back. He is a compelling character to say the least.

Basically, this is a near perfect epic fantasy book. One I would proudly give to a friend to showcase all the positives that the genre has to offer. It was moving, funny, gut wrenching, and awe inspiring. And I think we should all be keeping an eye on Patrick Rothfuss in the future, he has a long and rewarding future in front of him.

Oh, and on a side note, Patrick’s blog is entertaining, and humorous. Couple that with the picture of him in his Joss Wheadon is My Master Now tee, and well…kindred spirits are truly a beautiful thing. Getting all chocked up just thinking about it.

I have to admit, I’m not feeling all that funny these last few days. Hell, I’m not feeling all that amused in general. Which is odd for me. I always try to find the humor in everything. The worse it is, the harder I look for that one flash of humor, like a match flaring in the darkness. The world is a lot less intimidating when you can find the ridiculous in it.

I wonder if that’s why I enjoy fantasy so much, the escapism of it. The sense that no matter how bad it gets, and even when it ends tragically, there is still a sense of order, a sense of logic. Something sorely lacking in the “real” world.

In good fiction things make sense, rules are followed, characters introduced are rarely left behind, death–while tragic–makes sense. In books people get to say their good byes, love seems less complex, feelings more easily expressed. By the time you reach the end of a good book, no matter how sad it was, you get the sense of completion, the sense that everything will eventually be okay for the characters you’ve come to love. That’s not so in life. Not as much as I would like at any rate.

Fairness, rightness, poetic justice those are the things the world could use more of. But that is not the way this world we live in works. Good people die for no reason, love is unrequited, noble thoughts and deeds are punished as often as honored. No, this world is nothing like the fantasy found in books.

Is that bad or good? Is it more important that we take the journey then worry about the destination? If our world did make sense, would we grow, would we strive to be better people? Would evolution have taken us beyond single celled organisms if that much logic was applied to the world? Is it our ability to recognize all the injustices and unfairness inherent in our lives that has brought us to the state we are now? Beautifully, and tragically, flawed, a study in contrasts, capable of great kindness and utter brutality sometimes within the space of one breath.

I wish I knew the answers. I wish I knew the questions for that matter. The ones to ask to understand it all, to put it all into perspective. But I suppose if I all ready knew these things, I wouldn’t bother learning anything else. I wouldn’t strive, or yearn, or hope, or even despair. And that’s what makes me what I am, the search, the faith–misplaced or not–that there is some purpose so grand in scale my tiny little brain will never comprehend it, but to stop is to resign myself to a state of living death. A life of going through the motions and finding nothing of satisfaction. Who could live like that? Not me.

So, I suppose I keep looking for the ridiculous, the humor, the glorious insanity of life, and take from it what I can. Now you have to ask yourself, are you doing the same? Are you living, or did you die ages ago? Dear reader, I hope you’re alive, and if not doing well, at least striving…yearning, hoping, and most importantly laughing.

Now, I promise to resume forcing my opinions on you and lay off of the philosophy books in the future. Thank you for your patience.

Well, it’s been awhile, but we’re back in full swing. Not that the hundreds of thousands of people not reading this blog care. But eventually someone might stumble across the gap in our posting, and I felt that maybe I should explain myself.

I was fracking busy.

There you go, explanation given. Now, onto more important things.

I just returned a few days ago from my very first Sci-fi convention. It was called Starfest, in Denver CO, and is (according to the people I went with) one of the few fan run conventions still going.

It was small, but since it was my first I didn’t mind that, and the people I went with made it a blast. But there are certain things I’ve discovered about fans, and fandom, from my little trip.

• We have an awesome sense of humor. We’re just plain funny, at least to each other. And as long as we amuse ourselves, who cares.
• There’s something very surreal about discussing politics with a man dressed as a Klingon. At least it was to me. Mostly because we weren’t discussing politics with a Bat’leth, and no one walked away bloody. Needless to say; I was a bit disappointed.
• Lenord Nimoy can still pack a room.
• The Klingon Juice they were handing out at the hotel bar was in fact a Long Island Ice Tea with some blue crap thrown in there. The Long Island Ice Tea may not sound as manly, but it still packs a whollop no matter what you call it.
• There is nothing more enlightening then taking a smoke break (outside of course cause the entire city of Denver sees smokers as a short step above heroin addicts) at three in the morning, during a convention. The freaks truly do come out at night. And it’s nice that you always know where to find them when you’re in the mood for some.
• When trapped with people inside an elevator at one of these things you never have to worry about those awkward moments. We all know we have something in common, we share a common language. Chances are if I bring up Trek, George Lucas, Firefly, or BSG someone in the elevator is going to be able to carry on at least an hour long conversation with me. This totally negates the need for small talk, thank God. I despise small talk and am completely incapable of it. This alone is reason enough to go to a convention.
• Geeks trying to score with the opposite sex is not only amusing, it’s kind of endearing in that really cheesy way.
• And finally, I realized not only can I not dance, even the Time Warp is completely beyond my abilities because I apparently can not tell my left from my right when forced to do so to music.