Review: The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

The first thing I have to say about Patrick Rothfuss is wow.

And OMG.

And wow.

And give me more NOW. Please? What if I insert a cute lolcat with begging eyes? THEN will you give me more?  How about I follow directions on your fortune cookies? ;) 

With his debut novel, The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss set himself up to either be an amazing success or a complete failure. The book is to tell the story of THE legendary bard, THE wizard, THE storyteller, THE musician (you get my point. The dude is supposed to be able to tell a story like no one else can). That in and of itself doesn’t set an author up for failure. The setup is that the story itself is meant to be told as the legendary bard is relating it to someone else, so in his words. In short, the novel itself must therefore be as compelling as if the greatest storyteller of all times had told it, not as if an author was writing about the greatest storyteller. Nothing like reaching beyond the moon, eh?

Patrick Rothfuss succeeded. He hit one past the moon and the stars. This book is amazing. I almost want to pick it right back up and read it again.

I kept interrupting the other half’s obsessive Playboy-catchup (see previous blog) and WoW playing to quote non-spoiler bits of awesome prose. {Oh and to be fair, the PB-catchup is also tempered by a reading of a very thick, very excellent book on medieval history. However, it’s getting in his way of reading books I want him to read so I can talk about them to him, damn it.}

Recommendation: Absofuckinglutely. Run, don’t walk, and buy this book and read it immediately.