Book Review: The Name of the Wind

Every few years, fantasy fiction seems to rally 'round the standard of a handful of books touted as the savior of the era, books of such fabulous craft and wonder that they represent new shifts in the art. I've eyed The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss precisely because I have observed that furor rising around this book – in cover blurbs, in book store displays, on blogs and Amazon reviews. To say nothing of my own wife's slightly tempered praise of the book. Alas, my review is a minority report.

Like many other works heralded among fantasists as the state of the art, The Name of the Wind – part one of The Kingkiller Chronicles – is a weighty tome exceeding 600 pages, though unlike some epics its focus isn't a broad cast of characters. Here is the framed narrative of Kvothe, an apparently retired legend who agrees to record his coming-of-age with a biographer and scholar named Chronicler.

The narrative frame serves a larger purpose, and hints at one of Rothfuss' recurring foreshadowing devices. Kvothe, incognito as a small town innkeeper, mentions his legendary feats before the narrative unfolds. Rothfuss uses the technique within the narrative itself. He has a habit of end the books mostly brief chapters with single lines surprises that sometimes delight, but often cheapen the book (the surprises are frequently disarmed and explained within one paragraph in the following chapter).  But, more importantly, the framed narrative tantalizes with legendary feats that will, of course, take part in future sequels of the series. Here again, it too frequently cheapens the work as a novel with its own merit.

Kvothe's impossibly accomplished youth is surrounded by endearing poverty. Kvothe learns acting and music from his famous parents and their travelling Gypsy-like troupe. He then spends three miserable years living as a beggar and thief in a bustling port city. Then, somewhat inexplicably, Kvothe then finds himself the most gifted pupil at the University, a sophisticated school for aspiring arcanists. Throughout it all, Kvothe is the over-achiever. He is not just a talented musician, but apparently one of the most gifted in the world. He's accepted into the university at a younger age than any other … and they pay him to attend, rather than charging tuition. The narrative strings along Kvothe's constant obsession with being destitute, but of course he never truly suffers by being broke. Inevitably, his superlative talents land him in yet another fortuitous gain.

Strung together, these ups and downs are an illusion. They are mainly ups, and serve only as downs in so far as they further show Kvothe's charm and brilliance. In short, he's a sanctimonious annoyance of a protagonist, a frustrating Mary Sue. Many of Kvothe's supposed mistakes and life conflicts are the result of  him being too brilliant or too talented.

Even more strangely, he's a virginal prude obsessed with the one woman the book spends any time developing. Kvothe spends half or more of the book chasing after and pining after Denna, the aloof, mysterious girl with whom he's obsessed. The book fails to capture any of the charm of a first love of teenage romance, and instead presents a clueless boy who believes himself too pure to sully her troubled life with even a kiss.

And troubled lives? I hardly know what the fuss is about. Most of the action is Kvothe either fretting about how many pieces of iron and copper coins he holds at the moment, or negotiating with others to buy or get more coin. Rothfuss does an admirable job imagining a world with tinkers and coins and quaint shops. There is life and vitality there, but the legends are few and far between. Such events happen either away from the actual narrative, or in a book that isn't published as of this review.

When Kvothe's narrative does reveal the events for which he's now famous or infamous, we get his side of the story. This is some of the book's best attempts at humanizing a massively legendary character. Kvothe's memoir reveals how simply he achieved reputation – like dropping a massive iron wheel on the drug-addled herbivore dragon that inadvertently wrecks a small town. I think Rothfuss is trying to examine the power of a real character assuming the life of the legend – the pains and wild rumor and push and pull of relationships. It's a noble theme, but one that Rothfuss ultimately can't pull off.

I wish I could say I made up that bit about the drug-addicted dragon. The dragon – excuse me, draccus – sequence is a bizarre non sequitur that serves largely as the book's climax. It interrupts Kvothe's main quest – seeking out some dark hooded figures called the Chandrian. Kvothe's main motivation is a vengeance-minded drive to find information about the fairy-tale figures, the Chandrian.

But as villains, the Chandrian are far from frightening. The book reveals far too little for me to care who or what they are. I have no doubt there is more in store in upcoming books, but Rothfuss fails to capture interest in this one.

So, clearly, I'm not one rallying to the banner of The Name of the Wind as a stand out among fantasy literature. I can see what the fuss is about, I simply don't agree with it. There is much to like in the book, but it falls short with a frustrating protagonist, largely non-existent antagonists, and a plodding story that, despite pleasant reader, ultimately bores.

Here's the true test for me. The sequel, The Wise Man's Fear, arrives with some fanfare later this winter. I have barely any interest in investing in another hundred chapters.

The Name of the Wind: C-