That appears to be the important question in Rothfuss’s first book, which came to me highly recommended. The book makes no secret of being a paean to the overall badassery of its hero, either; the blurb is largely a list of Kvothe’s many accomplishments, accompanied with a cocksure “you may have heard of me.” If you think this all sounds like a tome of author wish-fulfillment that is centered on an annoyingly unbelievable protagonist... well, you wouldn’t be too far off the mark. But Rothfuss achieves the highly improbable, here. This is an extremely readable fantasy epic, with writing so genuinely good that I was forced to forgive its more egregious faults, no matter how much I may not have wanted to.
The book is actually a story within a story, and opens with a somber introduction to the owner of a lonely village inn. We soon learn that the unassuming innkeeper is living in hiding for some reason, and is the Kvothe we have apparently heard so much about. Strange tidings are afoot around the inn, however; demon-like creatures are attacking the travelers on the nearby roads, and Kvothe seems to be the only person around (along with his strange, otherworldly “employee” at the inn) who understands what they are and how to fight them off. Eventually, the famous Chronicler (who, appropriately enough, makes his living by chronicling things) travels to the inn after nearly being killed by the creatures on the roads, drawn to the area by rumors that the legendary Kvothe Kingkiller was hiding somewhere nearby. After some careful prodding, Kvothe agrees to tell his story, provided that he can tell it his way, immediately, without interruption. Thus, the book continues with his own story told in his own words, beginning with his childhood years as a traveling performer, and the circumstances that saw him admitted to the prestigious University on his way to becoming the youngest and most powerful Arcanist in centuries.
The story has a purposeful, palpable epic feel to it. This is a story about Kvothe, told by Kvothe. There are a number of interludes that pull back to the “present day,” including a particularly tense and action-packed chapter near the end, but they don’t yet connect directly to the main narrative. The Name of the Wind is mostly about Kvothe’s past, and the beginning steps of the journey that apparently leads to infamous adventures and deeds of great renown. The story is heavy with foreshadowing, some of which is fulfilled and some of which leads unmistakably to events in future books. I have seen multiple references to “Harry Potter for adults” in discussions about this book, and I’m inclined to agree: boy who is old for his age and seemingly good at anything he tries goes through some hard knocks, and then gets accepted to a school of magic and mystery, where he’s immediately the star of the show and suddenly vulnerable to dangers he hadn’t even considered.
Considering how up front Rothfuss is about what sort of story we can expect, the book is executed masterfully. Rothfuss can really turn a phrase. The writing is crisp and descriptive, and Kvothe’s tale flows like it really is being told by a minstrel, exaggerated at all the right parts and rife with beats and asides calculated for maximum dramatic effect. This is a pretty massive novel, but I couldn’t put it down. Moreover, you can see how carefully a lot of the story's main themes are crafted. The rampant Mary Sue-ishness of Kvothe and the plot convention of the skeptical Chronicler taking down his story intertwine to create a parable about the ephemeral nature of history, and how the line between fact and myth is often blurred in order to create a legend.
But, come on, you can’t write a book like this without taking some flak. If you tell me your hero is the most radical cool guy EVER, then I’m naturally going to be skeptical. Make no mistake, Kvothe is really supposed to be that good at everything he does. He had a photographic memory as a child. Was a master musician by the onset of puberty. An unrivaled actor. So good at learning rhetoric and chemistry that he was a graduate-level scientist at 12 years old. Naturally, he’s the most gifted wizard that anybody has ever seen. Fit and strong enough to physically face down a pack of ravenous demons, and still be chipper enough to crack a complicated text cipher a few hours later, after reading a single encoded paragraph. Oh, and let’s not forget how every remotely attractive woman in the vicinity is immediately primed for some naked time with him, despite the fact that he’s a teenager. PERHAPS YOU’VE HEARD OF HIM!
This somewhat ill-advised assuredness actually bleeds through into Rothfuss’s writing, which I think is where the faint whiffs of wish-fulfillment are coming from. Rothfuss is a fantastic writer, and excels at both telling the story and penning attractive, flowing prose. He’s so good, in fact, that he loses focus in a few places. He sometimes gets so wrapped up in a clever turn of phrase that he misplaces a pronoun or two. And he’s often guilty of letting his adept grasp on vocabulary and grammar get in the way, which is kind of a greenhorn mistake. For example, while I’ll admit that “a sea of susurrus murmurings” is an aesthetically beautiful phrase, it’s not only irritatingly redundant, but probably the most pretentious goddamned thing I’ve ever read in a fantasy novel. So, yeah. Between the grandiose descriptions of Kvothe and the bombastic tack that Rothfuss takes with the narrative, it can be occasionally difficult to take this whole thing seriously.
Here’s the amazing part, though: The Name of the Wind skirts the line between ridiculous and awesome so nicely that all of these issues can be apologized for through the story itself. Kvothe’s superhuman attributes all have a verifiable origin in his characterization, dubious though they may be, and they are nicely balanced by the multiple scenes in which his cocky naïvete lands him in hot water. The self-aggrandizing feel of the story fits perfectly within the framework of a scribe attempting to chronicle the true story of someone whose past is as much legend as actual history. Even the fact that this book doesn’t really have an ending (because it doesn’t; this planned trilogy began as one very long manuscript, and that fact becomes apparent when the book dumps you off into nowhere after 700 or so pages) is softened a little by the nice way in which Rothfuss bookends the story with a parallel prologue and epilogue, and bolsters it with interludes that hint at a greater story arc. For all that I wanted to cast aspersions on the weak elements of this book, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. This is a great fantasy work, almost despite itself.
I heartily recommend this to any fantasy lover. It’s pompous in just the right way, and tells a fun and resonating story. Rothfuss deserves the credit he’s getting as a talented contemporary fantasy author. However, I’m recommending this with a caveat: Rothfuss is building quite a bit of momentum with this eminently readable first book, and he’s already used up much of his credit in terms of how totally super badical tubular awesome I’m supposed to believe Kvothe is. I’m waiting to see where this story goes, mostly eagerly but with a healthy dose of skepticism. I liked this book enough to drop thirty bones on a hardcover edition of the second book, but from what I’ve already heard about the second book, I’m more than a little wary.
Verdict: 4 / 5
