One Windy Name

I have, at long last, begun reading The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss for the second time. Why at long last if it is my second time reading it? Well, first of all, I have had it on reserve for over a month, so that explains the long part. Secondly, and in regard to "last", the second book in the King Killer trilogy came out and the unprecedented spectacularness of the first demanded a re-read so as to not die from over-exposure to the brilliance that the second is sure to contain. Consider it a tolerance building exercise of sheer joy.

Reading the Name of the Wind for the first time was like eating an adventure wrapped in a refried bean spread wrapped in a tortilla. It was a wonder burrito that had me digesting and farting child-like enrapturement for days.

My life during that period was like a mix of Narnia and The Neverending Story. When I opened the book, I became an innkeeper in Newarre, performed in the traveling circus, Edema Ruh, lost my parents to the Chandrian, and studied at the University. My name was Kvothe and my hair was true-red (instead of silver-blonde). I was transfixed the way only a little boy can be transfixed, being the life of the book, frighted that with the turning of the next page my life would end.

When I read the book, I gasped, laughed, stammered, welled up with tears, and, when the suspense, tension, joy, or fear grew too great, my arm would weaken, casting the hand-clenched book down to my side, and I would stare inward, blank and breathless until I calmed down enough to read again.

Now, I have just finished chapter one on my second take and the anticipation of being part of such an intense, wonderful story has once again hightened my vigor to a vivacious extreme. I am reading via a book reader on my ipod, which can display about 100 words per page. Each passing page comes with a flick of my finger and an imagined whoosh sound as one slides of the screen and the other slides on. It feels like flying.