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

by Patrick Rothfuss

I realize now that I may have given an inaccurate impression of Haert. It was no thriving metropolis, obviously. And it couldn’t be considered a city by any stretch of the imagination. In some ways it was barely a town. I do not say this disparagingly. I spent the majority of my young life traveling with my troupe, moving from small town to small town. Half the world is made of tiny communities that have grown up around nothing more than a crossroads market, or a good clay pit, or a bend of river strong enough to turn a mill wheel. Sometimes these towns are prosperous. Some have rich soil and generous weather. Some thrive on the trade moving through them. The wealth of these places is obvious. The houses are large and well-mended. People are friendly and generous. The children are fat and happy. There are luxuries for sale: pepper and cinnamon and chocolate. There is coffee and good wine and music at the local inn.

can see it in my mind's eye