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PATRICK ROTHFUSS THE NAME OF THE WIND EPUB

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Main Author: Rothfuss, Patrick, Corporate Author: OverDrive Inc. Published: New York: Penguin, Series: Rothfuss, Patrick, Kingkiller . THE N A M E OF THE W I N D The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day One PATRICK ROTHFUSS My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Names. The The Name of the Wind. Home · The The Name of the Wind Author: Rothfuss Patrick button below! Report copyright / DMCA form · DOWNLOAD EPUB.


Patrick Rothfuss The Name Of The Wind Epub

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Patrick Rothfuss - [The Kingkiller Chronicle 01] - The Name of the Wind (epub) - dokument [*.epub] Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication. The Name of the Wind (Kingkiller Chronicle series) by Patrick Rothfuss. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. The Name of the Wind: The Kingkiller Chronicle: Book 1 (Kingkiller Chronicle series) by Patrick Rothfuss. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format.

You are really geeky. Like I said: that's cool. One star for each of them.

But, like I hinted, the book is pretty bad. So are you and me good? No hard feelings? I don't take shit too personally, either. So now I'll get down to ripping your book, knowing we can still be friends. In the interest of full disclosure, I faithfully admit that this book goes in my DNF shelf. I just couldn't finish it. I gave it a good honest try and eventually found myself reading only so I wouldn't have to admit to my brother that I didn't like it enough to finish. But that isn't a good reason to spend my time—something we have precious little of in our short lives—reading something I dislike and not getting paid for it.

So I'm sorry, bro. I tried.

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Yes, my brother is one of my GR friends and will likely see this review. Now on to the reasons I couldn't finish the book. Most of The Name of the Wind is written in the first person; it's the autobiography of Kvothe, who has a number of things in common with "The Most Interesting Man in the World. First, Bast is described as "sharp and delicate, almost beautiful, with striking blue eyes. Third, Bast follows Kvothe around like a puppy dog.

Fourth, Bast likes to tuck Kvothe into bed and watch him sleep. Fifth, Bast cries like a little girl when he hears something sad. Finally, Bast apparently can manifest himself as some sort of goat-man creature. Do you see where I'm going with this? Kvothe runs a bed-and-breakfast, in which a very sensitive and beautiful man follows him around and occasionally turns into a goat. Bed-and-breakfast and goat-men: what could be sexier? Not that there's anything wrong with that. I believe everyone should have the freedom be who they were born to be and I have several close friends who happen to be gay; I'm the last person who would have a problem with Kvothe and his beautiful male companion getting frisky goat-style, of course.

I only mention the implied homoerotic connection because Kvothe a. The Most Interesting Man in the World is supposed to be a lady-killer. No, not a psycho rapist murderer, you freaks. A lady-killa. A Lover of Women. I suppose that's not necessarily inconsistent; perhaps Kvothe swings both ways. Let's all say it together, now: not that there's anything wrong with that. First-person narrative is reserved for Kvothe's recitation of his life story.

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The remainder of the book, particularly the scenes of Kvothe manhandling his lover in front of the scribe Bast said Kvothe leaves bruises , are written in the third-person. I'll address my displeasure with the third-person sections first. Let me clarify at the outset that I have no problem with the writer switching between first-person and third-person narrative. I recognize it can be a powerful tool and it serves the structure of this story quite well. The book begins in the third-person, then as Kvothe tells his life story it switches to first-person, then back to third-person for occasional interludes.

My problem is with the author switching his narrative voice within the third-person sections. The academic geek is all over the place in that regard. Sometimes he writes a scene in third-person subjective, other times third-person objective. Some passages read like third-person limited, others third-person omniscient.

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At points the author seemed to switch voice page to page, or even paragraph to paragraph. In one especially irritating scene he even threw in a hint of first-person for a paragraph or so. Maybe if I'd kept reading I would have found a scene or two in second-person, just for good measure. The switching of narrative voices was confusing and frustrating.

I certainly understand the advantages of an omniscient narrator that can relate some scenes from one character's point of view and others from a second character's point of view, and so on. But that theory doesn't fit The Name of the Wind.

Welcome to the tale of Kvothe. Patrick Rothfuss had the good fortune to be born in Wisconsin in , where the long winters and lack of cable television encouraged a love of reading and writing. After abandoning his chosen field of chemical engineering, Pat became an itinerant student, wandering through clinical psychology, philosophy, medieval history, theater, and sociology.

Nine years later, Pat was forced by university policy to finally complete his undergraduate degree in English. When not reading and writing, he teaches fencing and dabbles with alchemy in his basement.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. And to my father, who taught me that if I was going to do something, I should take my time and do it right.

The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn's sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves.

If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night.

If there had been music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news.

In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint. The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar.

It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

Five wasn't much of a crowd, but five was as many as the Waystone ever saw these days, times being what they were. Old Cob was filling his role as storyteller and advice dispensary. The men at the bar sipped their drinks and listened.

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In the back room a young innkeeper stood out of sight behind the door, smiling as he listened to the details of a familiar story. They had taken his sword and stripped him of his tools: key, coin, and candle were all gone.

But that weren't even the worst of it, you see. The three friends had grown up together, listening to Cob's stories and ignoring his advice.

Cob peered closely at the newer, more attentive member of his small audience, the smith's prentice. Small towns being what they are, he would most likely remain "boy" until his beard filled out or he bloodied someone's nose over the matter.However, the pairing of Hap and Leonard as professional partners is appealing.

The merchant leader of the caravan trades in addictive drugs. In this instance, it went from beautiful metaphor to so-so analogy.

I don't know what to say. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. I'd like to read more stories set in this world. He said to the stone: 'Break!

FREDIA from Amarillo
Look through my other posts. I am highly influenced by airsofting. I do fancy studying docunments excitedly .