The Slow Regard of Silent Things (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #2.5)

by Patrick Rothfuss

It was wise enough to know itself, and brave enough to be itself, and wild enough to change itself while somehow staying altogether true.

Some places had names. Some places changed, or they were shy about their names. Some places had no names at all, and that was always sad. It was one thing to be private. But to have no name at all? How horrible. How lonely.

She was a greedy thing sometimes. Wanting for herself. Twisting the world all out of proper shape. Pushing everything about with the weight of her desire.

But no. There is a difference between the truth and what we wish were true.

Answers were always important, but they were seldom easy. She would simply have to take her time and do things in the proper way.

Some things simply were too true to stay. Some merely came to visit for a while.

Better still, the slow regard of silent things had wafted off the moisture in the air.

Some days simply lay on you like stones. Some were fickle as cats, sliding away when you needed comfort, then coming back later when you didn’t want them, jostling at you, stealing your breath.

She’d strayed from the true way of things. First you set yourself to rights. And then your house. And then your corner of the sky. And after that . .

How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?

She felt the panic rising in her then. She knew. She knew how quickly things could break. You did the things you could. You tended to the world for the world’s sake. You hoped you would be safe. But still she knew. It could come crashing down and there was nothing you could do. And yes. She knew she wasn’t right. She knew her everything was canted wrong. She knew her head was all unkilter. She knew she wasn’t true inside. She knew.

Well, after that she would do her best. That was the only way. You did not want things for yourself. That made you small. That kept you safe. That meant you could move smoothly through the world without upsetting every applecart you came across. And if you were careful, if you were a proper part of things, then you could help. You mended what was cracked. You tended to the things you found askew. And you trusted that the world in turn would brush you up against the chance to eat. It was the only graceful way to move. All else was vanity and pride.