This is a fat fantasy novel by Patrick Rothfuss. Did I say fat? What I meant was engorged, ready to burst, pelting the hapless reader and unfortunate bystanders with thousands of e’s, t’s, n’s, and s’s. It’s like what would happen if instead of simply turning those purchased vowels, Vanna ripped them off the board and flung them like ninja stars. (Yes, I know they’re electronic now, so shut your virtual pie hole and let me have my nostalgic metaphors.) Fortunately, for readers with a lifting limit of fifty pounds, there is now a paperback version.
Since a quick trip to amazon.com will give you hundreds of idiot commenters willing to bombard you with the story’s synopsis over and over, as if swapping a few words will cause a confused reader to smack his head and scream “AHA! I GET IT NOW!” I’ll refrain from wasting valuable bytes on my web server by doing it again.
Essentially what we have here is the first book of three (of course it is, it wouldn’t be a fantasy without at least three, four, or twenty novels to wait for) with a retired hero running a tavern (naturally), telling the first part of his tale, his coming-of-age, with magnificent recall to someone referred to only as the chronicler. Sound trite? Sure as hell did to me. Fortunately, I was in for a treat. And I like treats. Usually.
The Good: This tale wasn’t just written, it was crafted. Mr. Rothfuss decided to screw that whole paper shit and went and chiseled it right out of the tree. There were no pointless scenes, none of that excessive yawn-inducing exposition that some fantasy authors seem to believe readers will lap right up like chocolate sauce off their genitalia of choice, and refreshing few of the clichés that plague many stories in the genre.
And our hero is what Harry Potter would be if he wasn’t such a goddamned pussy.
The Bad: As is typical in the realms of fantasy novels, our hero is good at everything. Give him a pan flute, a box of tampons, and a dead monkey, and he’d make you a catapult. It doesn’t detract from the story much, except that he doesn’t fail so much as he just gets shafted from just about everyone. I would liked to have seen him try riding a unicycle, and end up falling into the prettiest girl on campus, bloodying her nose, and ripping her school dress right off, sending her naked and screaming while trying to decide which part of her body to cover with her suddenly inadequate number of limbs.
Or something like that.
The Neato: I live only fifteen miles from him. My stalking strategy is to buy an overstuffed chair, place it in his front walk, and sit there donned in a smoking jacket, curved pipe in hand, and saying “Cheerio!” every time he passes by.
Conclusion: You’re a dummy-stupid-idiot if you don’t read this.