Post by Rumbelle on Sept 13, 2012 14:46:23 GMT -5
Ok, so I've been looking on TF for a while, now, for a Kingkiller thread, and I couldn't find one. If it exists, then feel free to direct me there and ignore this one.
If not, then on we go!
The Kingkiller Chronicle (written by Patrick Rothfuss) tells the tale of a young man named Kvothe, and his rise to legendary status. Unlike many other fantasy books, though, it's entirely from his own perspective; warts and all.
So far we have two books, with the third set to be released in the near future.
Book One: The Name of the Wind
Book Two: The Wise Man's Fear
Book Three: The Doors of Stone (working title, unreleased)
I found this book many years ago, sitting on a shelf in a rather nondescript book section of a rather nondescript stationary store. I was caught by the beautiful cover art (in England, we got the vines and leaves version), but almost immediately after reading the first line I was in love.
The care and detail that Patrick Rothfuss put into this series is unbelievable, and his own internal continuity is spectacular. As a debut novel, it simply shines.
Where in places the story seems to lack action, we're pacified with some absolutely stellar character development, and even after reading the first two books over ten times, I've still not fallen out of love with this series.
I simply cannot recommend it highly enough, and I implore you, if you haven't already, to give it a shot. It's perfect.
Also, if you have read it, discuss! I'd love to chat to some fellow Kingkillers. (Hey, the fandom doesn't have a proper group name yet, so we can be Kingkillers for now.
)
If not, then on we go!
The Kingkiller Chronicle (written by Patrick Rothfuss) tells the tale of a young man named Kvothe, and his rise to legendary status. Unlike many other fantasy books, though, it's entirely from his own perspective; warts and all.
So far we have two books, with the third set to be released in the near future.
Book One: The Name of the Wind
Book Two: The Wise Man's Fear
Book Three: The Doors of Stone (working title, unreleased)
Book One Excerpt (spoiler free)
IF THIS STORY IS to be something resembling my book of deeds, we must begin at the beginning. At the heart of who I truly am. To do this, you must remember that before I was anything else, I was one of the Edema Ruh.
Contrary to popular belief, not all traveling performers are of the Ruh. My troupe was not some poor batch of mummers, japing at crossroads for pennies, singing for our suppers. We were court performers, Lord Greyfallow’s Men. Our arrival in most towns was more of an event than the Midwinter Pageantry and Solinade Games rolled together. There were usually at least eight wagons in our troupe and well over two dozen performers: actors and acrobats, musicians and hand magicians, jugglers and jesters: My family.
My father was a better actor and musician than any you have ever seen. My mother had a natural gift for words. They were both beautiful, with dark hair and easy laughter. They were Ruh down to their bones, and that, really, is all that needs to be said.
Save perhaps that my mother was a noble before she was a trouper. She told me my father had lured her away from “a miserable dreary hell” with sweet music and sweeter words. I could only assume she meant Three Crossings, where we went to visit relatives when I was very young. Once.
My parents were never really married, by which I mean they never bothered making their relationship official with any church. I’m not embarrassed by the fact. They considered themselves married and didn’t see much point in announcing it to any government or God. I respect that. In truth, they seemed more content and faithful than many officially married couples I have seen since.
Our patron was Baron Greyfallow, and his name opened many doors that would ordinarily be closed to the Edema Ruh. In return we wore his colors, green and grey, and added to his reputation wherever we went. Once a year we spent two span at his manor, entertaining him and his household.
It was a happy childhood, growing up in the center of an endless fair. My father would read to me from the great monologues during the long wagon rides between towns. Reciting mostly from memory, his voice would roll down the road for a quarter mile. I remember reading along, coming in on the secondary parts. My father would encourage me to try particularly good sections myself, and I learned to love the feel of good words.
My mother and I would make up songs together. Other times my parents would act out romantic dialogues while I followed along in the books. They seemed like games at the time. Little did I know how cunningly I was being taught.
I was a curious child: quick with questions and eager to learn. With acrobats and actors as my teachers, it is little wonder that I never grew to dread lessons as most children do.
The roads were safer in those days, but cautious folk would still travel with our troupe for safety’s sake. They supplemented my education. I learned an eclectic smattering of Commonwealth law from a traveling barrister too drunk or too pompous to realize he was lecturing an eight-year-old. I learned woodcraft from a huntsman named Laclith who traveled with us for nearly a whole season.
I learned the sordid inner workings of the royal court in Modeg from a . . . courtesan. As my father used to say: “Call a jack a jack. Call a spade a spade. But always call a whore a lady. Their lives are hard enough, and it never hurts to be polite.”
Hetera smelled vaguely of cinnamon, and at nine years old I found her fascinating without exactly knowing why. She taught me I should never do anything in private that I didn’t want talked about in public, and cautioned me to not talk in my sleep.
And then there was Abenthy, my first real teacher. He taught me more than all the others set end to end. If not for him, I would never have become the man I am today.
I ask that you not hold it against him. He meant well.
IF THIS STORY IS to be something resembling my book of deeds, we must begin at the beginning. At the heart of who I truly am. To do this, you must remember that before I was anything else, I was one of the Edema Ruh.
Contrary to popular belief, not all traveling performers are of the Ruh. My troupe was not some poor batch of mummers, japing at crossroads for pennies, singing for our suppers. We were court performers, Lord Greyfallow’s Men. Our arrival in most towns was more of an event than the Midwinter Pageantry and Solinade Games rolled together. There were usually at least eight wagons in our troupe and well over two dozen performers: actors and acrobats, musicians and hand magicians, jugglers and jesters: My family.
My father was a better actor and musician than any you have ever seen. My mother had a natural gift for words. They were both beautiful, with dark hair and easy laughter. They were Ruh down to their bones, and that, really, is all that needs to be said.
Save perhaps that my mother was a noble before she was a trouper. She told me my father had lured her away from “a miserable dreary hell” with sweet music and sweeter words. I could only assume she meant Three Crossings, where we went to visit relatives when I was very young. Once.
My parents were never really married, by which I mean they never bothered making their relationship official with any church. I’m not embarrassed by the fact. They considered themselves married and didn’t see much point in announcing it to any government or God. I respect that. In truth, they seemed more content and faithful than many officially married couples I have seen since.
Our patron was Baron Greyfallow, and his name opened many doors that would ordinarily be closed to the Edema Ruh. In return we wore his colors, green and grey, and added to his reputation wherever we went. Once a year we spent two span at his manor, entertaining him and his household.
It was a happy childhood, growing up in the center of an endless fair. My father would read to me from the great monologues during the long wagon rides between towns. Reciting mostly from memory, his voice would roll down the road for a quarter mile. I remember reading along, coming in on the secondary parts. My father would encourage me to try particularly good sections myself, and I learned to love the feel of good words.
My mother and I would make up songs together. Other times my parents would act out romantic dialogues while I followed along in the books. They seemed like games at the time. Little did I know how cunningly I was being taught.
I was a curious child: quick with questions and eager to learn. With acrobats and actors as my teachers, it is little wonder that I never grew to dread lessons as most children do.
The roads were safer in those days, but cautious folk would still travel with our troupe for safety’s sake. They supplemented my education. I learned an eclectic smattering of Commonwealth law from a traveling barrister too drunk or too pompous to realize he was lecturing an eight-year-old. I learned woodcraft from a huntsman named Laclith who traveled with us for nearly a whole season.
I learned the sordid inner workings of the royal court in Modeg from a . . . courtesan. As my father used to say: “Call a jack a jack. Call a spade a spade. But always call a whore a lady. Their lives are hard enough, and it never hurts to be polite.”
Hetera smelled vaguely of cinnamon, and at nine years old I found her fascinating without exactly knowing why. She taught me I should never do anything in private that I didn’t want talked about in public, and cautioned me to not talk in my sleep.
And then there was Abenthy, my first real teacher. He taught me more than all the others set end to end. If not for him, I would never have become the man I am today.
I ask that you not hold it against him. He meant well.
I found this book many years ago, sitting on a shelf in a rather nondescript book section of a rather nondescript stationary store. I was caught by the beautiful cover art (in England, we got the vines and leaves version), but almost immediately after reading the first line I was in love.
The care and detail that Patrick Rothfuss put into this series is unbelievable, and his own internal continuity is spectacular. As a debut novel, it simply shines.
Where in places the story seems to lack action, we're pacified with some absolutely stellar character development, and even after reading the first two books over ten times, I've still not fallen out of love with this series.
I simply cannot recommend it highly enough, and I implore you, if you haven't already, to give it a shot. It's perfect.
Also, if you have read it, discuss! I'd love to chat to some fellow Kingkillers. (Hey, the fandom doesn't have a proper group name yet, so we can be Kingkillers for now.
)
