Ahhh The Wise Man’s Fear — that sequel is like slipping back into a conversation you never wanted to end. You know how The Name of the Wind left us hanging with Kvothe’s stubborn brilliance and rough beginnings? This one takes all that, stretches it across the wider world, and just keeps pulling at you. I swear, reading it felt like sitting with an old friend who can’t stop telling stories, and every time you think he’s done, he leans in with another wild twist.
So Kvothe is a student still of course, always broke, always just smart enough to be his own downfall. The entire tragedy of the Ambrose thing could not die away, I tell you — I know, that is an awfully small villain of a man, Ambrose, but the manner in which he and Kvothe go round and round, hurling insults and plots upon one another, that I found myself smiling at how petty and childishly mean Ambrose was and how Kvothe could not leave well enough alone. And when Kvothe carries the sympathy binding too far, in fact making Ambrose face a threat, my stomach sank. It is that point where you see that cleverness that is also Kvothes curse, he does not know how to stop it, and I would both admire and fear him because of it.
Then there is Denna, even Denna. Her manner of entering and sinking out of his life, as some haunting tune he cannot rid himself of. The stolen intimate time together, the tension, the fact that she has secrets all the time. I would have liked to shake Kvethe, as though to wake him up! She’s not going to stay. She never stays.” And there, when she would show up again, I melted just like him. This tenderness and ache that almost made me feel guilty about the level of engagement I had during their dance.
The book, however, really takes off when Kvothe quits the University. And then it seems like the world is growing. The entire journey to Severen, toiling with Maer Alveron, my God, those chapters were like court intrigue so well. Kvothe worked his way up to high society, and played at politics, with his wit and his music, and in order to save even the life of the Maer, with that mad piece of medicine and contrivance. I was so proud of him there, of him, like, this is why you put up with his arrogance, because he can perform miracles when it counts.
And then, of course, the Maer sends him off to deal with bandits, which turns into this whole other adventure. Those woods, the slow dread of hunting men who are hunting you — I could feel the tension like a blade hovering just above the skin. And then Felurian — oh, Felurian. That whole section felt like slipping into a fever dream. Kvothe stumbling into the realm of a fae who has undone countless men, and instead of being destroyed, he stays, he learns, he survives. Reading that was like being caught between disbelief and awe. I didn’t know if I wanted to applaud Kvothe or roll my eyes at his reckless audacity. And yet, the way Rothfuss wrote it, there was this strange intimacy, this exploration of danger and beauty tangled together, that honestly left me kind of breathless.
And as Kvothe moves on, with that scrap of fae knowledge, learning the shaed, returning to the world of humans with shadow stuck to him like burdensome mud - I was altered in almost equal measure to him. He wants you to believe in the legend of Kvothe, and yet, reminds you that legends are woven with genius and stupidity.
Then there’s the Adem. I really remembered that part. Kvothe is making his way in their culture, so different, so disciplined, so not like anything he knows, the hand-talk, the philosophy of fighting, how they feel about desire and restraint. It was disgraceful to see Kvothe being educated by them. He was not the smartest guy in the room, at least once. He had to work hard, and I admired that development in him. Yet there too, he was bending it to his own tale -- and I found myself asking, is really, is this how, or does Kvothe wish us to think it was?
As he visits the University again at the end of the book it almost seems too small to him now. As though he has grown too big to wear it, though he is hanging on to it. And the clues that pepper the frame story - the restlessness of Bast, the darkness of the world beyond the inn, the emptiness inside Kvothe himself - they render everything he is telling us as inevitable as winter itself. You know this genius, swollen-headed boy is on his way to ruin, and that the successes are bitter.
After completing it, I simply sat down staring at the final page, with that empty feeling inside my chest. Rothfuss does not give you clean endings, he gives you endings that leave you with many questions and many admiration and many frustration, as though you have been walking next to Kvothe and he is still half a stranger to you. And maybe that’s the point. Legends aren’t clean. Heroes aren’t tidy. Kvothe is an extraordinary, frustrating, shattered, and memorable man. And I couldn’t help but love every messy second of it.
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