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

by Patrick Rothfuss

And I am. And she was. And so.

A dash of writing, yet profoundly powerful.

“They never say they’re interested.” Simmon laughed at the absurdity of it. “There are little games. It’s like a dance.”

“You are mine. Mine alone. I don’t intend to share you.”

“This is the nature of love,” Vashet said. “To attempt to describe it will drive a woman mad. That is what keeps poets scribbling endlessly away. If one could pin it to the paper all complete, the others would lay down their pens. But it cannot be done.”

Cyphus bears the blue flame. Stercus is in thrall of iron. Ferule chill and dark of eye. Usnea lives in nothing but decay. Grey Dalcenti never speaks. Pale Alenta brings the blight. Last there is the lord of seven: Hated. Hopeless. Sleepless. Sane. Alaxel bears the shadow’s hame.”

“Everyone needs to be reminded,”

EVERYONE