The Wise Man's Fear (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #2)

by Patrick Rothfuss

Ten hours I spent there, and the only act of creation I accomplished was to magically transform nearly a gallon of coffee into marvelous, aromatic piss.

Even so, I can take only a small piece of credit for the letters and songs. And as for the poem, there is only one thing in the world that could move me to such madness.

“I’ve always liked moonless nights best. It’s easier to say things in the dark. It’s easier to be yourself.”

“There are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. And there is one of you, trying just the opposite. Making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest I fall.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said, then reconsidered. “No, that’s not the truth. I would. You’re worth lying for. But I wasn’t. You’re worth telling the truth for too.” Denna gave me a fond smile. “That’s harder to come by anyway.”

“Puns are worse than book lessons, Reshi,”

“What a useful lesson this has already been,” Kvothe said dryly. “You’ve deduced a universal truth: things are usually unfair.”

“You need to decide what you want for yourself. You want to go home? There’s a price. You want control over your life? There’s a price. You want the freedom to say no? There’s a price. There’s always a price.”

Most secrets are secrets of the mouth. Gossip shared and small scandals whispered. These secrets long to be let loose upon the world. A secret of the mouth is like a stone in your boot. At first you’re barely aware of it. Then it grows irritating, then intolerable. Secrets of the mouth grow larger the longer you keep them, swelling until they press against your lips. They fight to be let free. Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become.

Modern philosophers scorn Teccam, but they are vultures picking at the bones of a giant.

“Knowing things is what I do,”

nothing in the world is harder than convincing someone of an unfamiliar truth.

And it was a secret thing, of sorts. I have always had a weakness for secrets.

“Barbarians have no woman to teach them civilization. Barbarians cannot learn.”

“It’s the questions we can’t answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he’ll look for his own answers.”

I sat there, silent and stunned by the scope of his instruction. By my lack of understanding. My lack of sight.

I felt better, not good by any means, but better. Less empty. My music always helped. As long as I had my music, no burden was ever too heavy to bear.

I did my best not to think about it. Only a fool worries over what he can’t control.

naked and unprepared.

Half of seeming clever is keeping your mouth shut at the right times.

Sewing with starlight. Realization came to me in a flood. “Shaed” meant shadow. She had somehow brought back an armful of shadow and was sewing it with starlight. Sewing me a cloak of shadow.

She caught me around the neck and kissed me with the wildness of a dozen children.

Weird choice of meraphor

reminding me of a mother dressing her child against the cold.

Again, weird

If anyone wants to call me a liar we can have it out right now.” The fiddler picked up his bow and met Dedan’s eye. He drew a screaming note across the strings. “Liar.”

“Boys are always wearing beards and hoping it will make them men.”

and whispered seven words into her ear. “For all that, she lacked your fire.” And she loved me for those seven words, and her pride was safe.

Sooo i hate kvothe now haha

But how could that be? I hear you ask. How could any mortal woman compare with Felurian? It is easier to understand if you think of it in terms of music. Sometimes a man enjoys a symphony. Elsetimes he finds a jig more suited to his taste. The same holds true for lovemaking. One type is suited to the deep cushions of a twilight forest glade. Another comes quite naturally tangled in the sheets of narrow beds upstairs in inns. Each woman is like an instrument, waiting to be learned, loved, and finely played, to have at last her own true music made.

Im actually not waiting on any man to play me thanks

A hundred words to praise a woman. Too many. Our talk is smaller.” “So when I meet a woman, I should simply say, ‘You are beautiful’?” Tempi shook his head. “No. You would say simply ‘beautiful,’ and let the woman decide the rest of what you mean.” “Isn’t that …” I didn’t know the words for “vague” or “unspecific” and had to start again to get my point across. “Doesn’t that lead to confusion?” “It leads to thoughtfulness,”

“In killing men, one is many.”

no man is brave that has never walked a hundred miles. If you want to know the truth of who you are, walk until not a person knows your name. Travel is the great leveler, the great teacher, bitter as medicine, crueler than mirror-glass. A long stretch of road will teach you more about yourself than a hundred years of quiet introspection.”

I stood and slung my lute over one shoulder. Then I led both lovely girls, one golden and one dark, toward my tent.

From felurian on its giving patrick rothfuss writing his own fanfic erotica and i hate it

“We hain’t like other folk. You burn a man with an iron to stop his bleeding. You save the mother and lose the babe. It’s hard, and nobody ever thanks you for it. But we’re the ones that have to choose.”

“If a leg goes bad, you cut it off.” She made a firm gesture with the flat of her hand, then picked up her slice of pudding and began to eat it with her fingers. “And some folk need killing. That’s all there is to it.”

“Your magic?” she asked with a well-hidden hint of childlike awe. “And music,”

If you’d known how difficult it was, you never would have stood a chance of doing it.”

Sim could always make me smile.

“But only an idiot sits in a burning house and thinks everything is fine because fruit is still sweet.”