My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to.

The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean The Flame, The Thunder, or The Broken Tree. "The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. "The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I've never thought of "The Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic.

My first mentor called me E'lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six'String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them.

But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant "to know."

I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned.

I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.

You may have heard of me.

This is not where the book begins, but this is where the story begins. Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of The Wind, justly hailed as one of the promising fantasy debuts of all time.

I always find it hard to write reviews for books I like; harder still, for books I love. But the hardest of all are the books that bring me to awe, admiration and adoration. I know I sound hyperbolic, but there is no adjective I could apply in praise of NotW that would capture the essence of what this book means to me.

There are many writers I have admired over the years. Some of them I revere. But Patrick Rothfuss is the only writer who makes me pray passionately to a God I'm not even sure I believe in, to grant me an iota of his talent. It's not just that the Name of the Wind has some of the most beautiful prose I've ever read. It's not just that the storytelling transcends our times, and transports me to a place that seems almost real. It's the fact that these simple words on a page touch a deep place inside of me. Allow me to quote Kvothe here:

Yes, I cried at the end of it. I did then, and I have every time since. Even a reading of the story aloud will bring tears to my eyes. In my opinion, anyone who isn't moved by it is less than human inside.

Quoting Kvothe again, this book is "not flawless, but perfect". I'm not so blind in my adoration that I cannot see the faults in this book. Let's begin with the obvious. It's gargantuan! This is one massive doorstopper of a book, and the next one is TWICE as big! There are times when, no matter how absorbing the narrative, the editor part of me was screaming, 'not necessary! not necessary!' Kvothe is one of those smart, charming, cocky, funny, attractive, talented heroes who are every geek's wish fulfillment fantasy. So are the women. You can totally tell from this book that Patrick Rothfuss is a geek, whose spent more of his time role-playing than playing Casanova. Denna is the perfect adolescent fantasy. A beautiful mysterious woman who secretly has the hots for our hero, who appears and disappears at whim, vastly desired by all the men around her, and playing hard-to-get into the bargain. All the other women in this novel also appear sparsely and are oddly flat. This book is all about Kvothe and how super-cool he is. There are also way too many "cute" references to how, if it was a story things would have gone differently, but since it's real life, things are more complicated. Rothfuss does come across as being a little too self-satisfied with his subtle attempts at breaking fantasy tropes.

But despite its faults, this book sucks you in and keeps you mesmerized. There is beauty in Rothfuss' prose, a rhythm and flow that indicate a master storyteller, almost bardic in its intensity. This book reminds me of Daughter of the Forest, even though the styles and the cadences are completely different. What's similar between them is their ability to sweep me off my feet and into another world. NotW is the sort of book that makes me want to genuflect; it's the sort of book that makes me deeply envious as a storyteller, because I know that no matter how good I am, no matter how well-received my work is, this is the book I would have wished to have written, and never shall. Damn you, Patrick Rothfuss!