The Name of the Wind

I know. It's a shitty title. But (and this is a massive but) The Name of the Wind is perhaps the best fantasy novel I've ever read. It was so good that I started to despair after reading it because I know with cruel certainty that I will never, ever be able to write something that pointed.

The novel tells a story within a story. The main character's name is Kvothe. He has even reached his thirties yet, but he's become a legend, and as the first page of the novel tells us, he's "a man waiting to die."

The rest of the novel jumps back and forth between Kvothe's present day exploits (or lack thereof- He's been horribly diminished) and the story he tells of his past to a man named Chronicler. Because the flashbacks that make up most of the story are told in first person, the speaker, in this case Kvothe, is able to interject his own opinions whenever he pleases. Each time the story seems to be veering toward predictable yet entertaining genre staples, Kvothe reminds us that his story isn't like a fairy tale, and then something surprising happens.

The greatest strength of the book is that it follows genre conventions yet still manages to keep the reader nervous. Bad things happen just as they do in most fantasy stories, but the difference here is that they don't happen when they're supposed to. They catch you by surprise. Better still, I have never rooted for two potential lovers to get together more than Kvothe and the lady he circles through the whole book.

All in all, great stuff.

9.6/10

Tying the Room Together

Like Jeffrey Lebowski, we're all looking for something to tie the room together. Keep in mind that I'm being metaphorical here, but imagine that two muscular men in tank tops have broken into your apartment, wrecked your stuff, cracked the tile in your bathroom with a bowling ball, and pissed on your rug.

They peed on your fucking rug, Dude.

So here you are, again metaphorically, in the position of so many young Americans. On the one hand, you could go to the other Jeff Lebowski, the millionaire, for help. Or you could try Maude Lebowski. Or Jackie Treehorn. Or the marmot happy Nihilists who want to cut off your johnson. The point is, you're fucked unless you rely on Walter and Donny. (Forget about the cash machine and Bunny's offer. You don't want your shit to fall off. Hint: by shit, I mean genitalia)

So maybe you just graduated from college into a shitty economy? They peed on your rug. Maybe you're stuck in a job you hate? They peed on your rug. Maybe you married the wrong guy or gal but your devout religiosity won't let you escape? You peed on your own rug, bro. (Go ask a priest why God killed, outright blasted, so many people in the OT- this is for another post)

But the point is that you should go find your Walter and Donny. The latter is probably throwing rocks tonight, and he wont be around forever, weak heart and all. I bet your friends are just as dysfunctional as those two. Find 'em. Hang out with 'em. Our amigos are the best things we've got going.

The first rule of living is the same as the first rule of flying. Love. (Ask Joss Whedon about that one and you'll simultaneously see that I'm not sappy and watch an excellent film that shouldn't be)

To end my nonsensical post, I'll quote Jayne Cobb:

"Yeah. Tell us where the stuff's at so I can shoot you."