Review: Patrick Rothfuss’s “The Name of the Wind”

by Miles Raymer

Rothfuss

After myriad recommendations from trusted sources, I had high expectations for Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind. But now that I have finally reached the end of this torturous novel, I can safely say it has been a long time since I loathed a book this much. In my view, The Name of the Wind is an overblown, boring piece of tripe that deserves almost none of the praise it has received from fantasy readers around the world.

I should acknowledge that this book does have a smattering of good qualities. The worldbuilding is acceptable, even innovative in a few ways. Rothfuss’s prose is ghastly on the whole, but he does occasionally manage to churn out a clever turn of phrase (this could perhaps be attributed more to statistics than to skill, given the story’s length). The book contains some terrific descriptions of music (often difficult to capture with the written word) and musings on the nature of the musical mind. In some ways, The Name of the Wind fits the definition of a fine yarn–– “a long or rambling story, especially one that is implausible”.

That’s all I have to say in the book’s defense. Beyond those small strengths, I have nothing but enmity for this bloated mess of a book. I don’t often feel as if reading anything is a waste of my time, but I do genuinely feel like the time I put into this book could have been better spent doing something else––anything else. In my haste to move on to a more interesting read, I will restrict myself to a few core complaints.

One critical failure of this novel is that it’s all about one profoundly unlikeable person, and not in that he’s-not-so-bad-once-you-get-to-know-him sort of way. Kvothe (pronounced “Quoth”) is a prodigy in almost every imaginable fashion, a youth of many talents. Sadly, his best talent by far is being a complete sod. Though Rothfuss works tirelessly to make Kvothe a sympathetic figure, he proves himself to be an arrogant, obnoxious jerk at every turn. Having Kvothe tell his own story in the first person, instead of writing him in the third person, was a huge mistake; being inside this prick’s head is just the worst.

A friend of mine described this dynamic as “male power fantasy,” which I thought was spot on. Kvothe’s insufferable ability to weasel his way out of any tight spot––a quality that would usually endear a character to an audience––becomes a mockery of repetition and absurdity with each new episode. This is not because Kvothe doesn’t have serious problems to overcome, but rather because his attitude is so fucking smug. He’s a guy who has experienced extreme poverty but knows deep down that he is a superman, the kind of guy who would respond this way when warned that a woman might break his heart:

My heart is made of stronger stuff than glass. When she strikes she’ll find it strong as iron-bound brass, or gold and adamant together mixed. Don’t think I am unaware, some startled deer to stand transfixed by hunter’s horns. It’s she who should take care, for when she strikes, my heart will make a sound so beautiful and bright that it can’t help but bring her back to me in winged flight. (loc. 9296)

Since he is patently so much better than everyone else, all Kvothe needs is the proper training and resources, and nothing will escape his grasp. The worst part is that we never get a break from having to deal with this uppity asshole; the story never wavers from its singular focus on his checkered upbringing.

Another massive problem is that The Name of the Wind is tremendously dull. Hardly anything happens, and the book’s final act reads like the rising action of a halfway decent fantasy novel. I kept waiting for something to move the story forward, but all I got was a bland series of events designed merely to prove and reinforce Kvothe’s resourcefulness and cleverness. Nothing’s ever truly at stake because Kvothe always finds a way to minimize or obviate the consequences of his actions.

Perhaps the worst aspect of this book is how Qvothe and the other male characters think about and relate to women. Rothfuss writes like a guy who has only ever idealized the opposite sex and never really had the chance to get to know a woman as a real person. His language readily depicts women as vacuous objects made to be filled with male motivations and desires. Qvothe is unfailingly flirtatious but retreats from true sexuality at every turn; Rothfuss seems to think this makes him a gentleman rather than a lousy communicator and the very picture of disingenuousness.

Denna, Kvothe’s love interest, is a two-dimensional male fantasy come to life, the kind of woman whose smile is described as “a flower unfurling” and who says things like, “Don’t go quiet on my account…I’d miss the sound of your voice” (locs. 8030, 9244). Yuck! The way Kvothe relates to her would be comic if it weren’t so upsetting. He describes her as “the perfect audience [for a story], attentive and gasping at all the right moments” (loc. 12116).

Kvothe’s attitude toward his male rivals for Denna’s affection further reveals his view that she is nothing more than a conduit for his own greatness:

There is a part of her that is only for me. You cannot touch it, no matter how hard you might try. And after she has left you I will still be here, making her laugh. My light shining in her. I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name. (loc. 13741, emphasis his)

There’s no shortage of sexist language in this book, most of it implicit. But sometimes Rothfuss brings it right out into the open, such as this parroting of a classic patriarchal piece of nonsense:

“Good lord, you really don’t know anything about women, do you?” I would ordinarily have bristled as his comment, but Deoch was nothing but good natured. “Think of it. She’s pretty and charming. Men crowd round her like stags in rut.” He made a flippant gesture. “Women are bound to resent it.” (loc. 9859-67)

Tragically, I am not convinced that this series is irredeemable. Rothfuss drops lines here and there that suggest he might actually have a decent story to tell. It’s clear that Qvothe’s arrogance is intended to demonstrate the sophomoric failings of youth, and represents a high cliff from which he will eventually tumble to ruin. I wish this first book had contained some of that, rather than just stringing me along and counting on me to read the next installment. I imagine the second book might be better than the first, but after more than a month spent struggling to decide if it was even worth my time to finish The Name of the Wind, there is not a chance in hell that I’ll be returning to Rothfuss’s world anytime soon.

For all of these reasons, and many more, The Name of the Wind is a worthless sinkhole of verbiage on which I’ll not waste another word.

Rating: 1/10