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

by Patrick Rothfuss

In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

“Flashing moon silver, midnight blue her eyes The lids were subtle-colored butterflies. Her hair swayed, a dark scythe swinging Through the trees with the wind singing. Felurian! O Lady Fair, Blessed be your forest glade. Your breath is light upon the air. Your hair is shadow-dappled shade.”

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

In my defense, I could have dispensed with the truth entirely and told a much better story. Lies are simpler, and most of the time they make better sense.

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.”