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The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
The hero in hidden exile tells the first part of his story to a scribe, from gypsy to street urchin to student of magic to musician, while a largely obscure threat menaces the land.



I read the first hundred pages of the book and went oi, because it's about a red-headed, green-eyed infamous orphan genius bard magician swordsman, and I was just not in the mood for that particular shovelful of clichés. But I came back because I kept thinking about it. It is, in fact, exactly that shovelful of clichés, though some of them have been subverted or outright broken, which I appreciate. And it's a beautifully written book, with multiple turns of phrase that made me stop and go 'ooh.' At least once I'd forcibly tuned my ear to the purposely overblown language. And it's a bit meta around the edges in ways that work for me, because the hero relating the story is an opportunity for him to pick it apart a bit and look at each of the required pieces – tragic childhood, great genius, star-crossed love.



Still, I'm . . . hmm. Okay. I have this huge turn-off for stories where the protagonist is repeatedly wronged and repeatedly unable to make anyone in authority believe him. This isn't one of those stories, but it made me feel like it was, you know? I think because it's doing the same trick of . . . validating through suffering, maybe? Explaining greatness with pain without letting us actually see the magic of turning one into the other. And as engrossing as this book is, it also was like nails on chalkboard that way sometimes, which I qualify by saying that's a very personal, lizardbrain response.




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