The Name of the Wind

Patrick Rothfuss (2007)

I’m not a huge fan of the fantasy genre but there are one or two classics that are right up there including the Narnia Chronicles and Lord of the Rings. So when I was invited to read this door stopper I was a bit hesitant. Did I really want to commit to several ‘fantasy hours’ with an unknown writer? The shining eyes of its recommender (cheers, Jay) pushed me over the line enough for me to sagely commit to at least the first 50 pages. This is what I say to my students, too. Give it 50 pages before giving up on it. Well, within the first 10 pages I was hooked! (The first 10pp of the story, that is - I almost didn’t get there on account of the fact that this particular book is a commemorative limited edition hardback with a long winded self-aggrandizing author’s note. That was vile. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT read that part of the book if you happen across this 2017 edition. Unless you want to look at your favorite Hollywood actor with no make-up, in track pants, on the loo.)

‘The Name of the Wind’ is a rollicking good tale! Hugely entertaining!! The protagonist is perfect for this genre. So named ‘Kvothe’ is highly likeable. He is off-the-charts smart but due to his age (15-ish) is naïve and vulnerable as he is making his own way in the world. Of course, he has magic powers, but these are largely unexplored and under-developed which can create mayhem on days.

The author has ensured that all the fantasy boxes are ticked without being tedious or predictable. Every ‘instalment’ has a cliff-hanger, page-turning ending, which can be a problem if you want to eat, sleep, shop or shower! Several times I found myself exclaiming aloud or even talking to the book. That’s right up there with idiots who yell answers at the TV when watching quiz shows. Don’t they know the contestants can’t hear them?

Another reason I loved this story is the sporadic use of mischief and straight-up humour. Life is too short to be miserable – anything that can bring a smile or evoke a LOL is worth the investment. Rothfuss puts his capable finger on the pulse of the human condition at every turn. He is, quite plainly, a solid writer of merit. I say, get on board! I am gagging to read the sequel which is right next to me on Jay’s kindle. Yee har!!

            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 travelling barrister too drunk or too pompous to realise he was lecturing an eight-year-old. I learned woodcraft from a huntsman named Laclith who travelled 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. (p.55)

Year of Wonders – Geraldine Brooks

Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to live in the Middle Ages during the time of the Black Death? I was introduced to this book over ten years ago when I taught it to my year 10s. I loved it so much that when I was in the UK a few months ago I made sure I visited the actual village – Eyam – where the story was set. Talk about 3D writing! What a privilege to see everything come to life as I walked the very paths mentioned in Brooks’ fine work.

Brooks outlines in the afterword how she stumbled across the village of Eyam whilst on assignment in London in 1990. I, too, was captivated by its history, namely, in how the minister of the time passionately implored the residents to ‘lock down’ the village in a bid to stop the ‘plague seeds’ spreading beyond and infecting the nearby locales.

Beloved, I hear you in your hearts, saying that we already have fear. We fear this disease and the death it brings. But you will not leave this fear behind you. It will travel with you wheresoever you fly. And on your way, it will gather to itself a host of greater fears. For if you sicken in a stranger’s house, they may turn you out, they may lock you up to die in dreadful solitude. You will thirst, and none shall quench you. You will cry out, and your cries will fade into empty air. For in that stranger’s house, all you will receive is blame… they will heap their hatred upon you, in the hour when your greatest need is love! (Rev. Mompellion pp.105-6)

This work of fiction is plausible. There are storylines which adhere closely to historical records. I can testify to viewing the actual ‘plague houses’, the church, and many inscribed tombs. As for the rest, Brooks envelops the reader in the likely superstition, the livelihoods, the class structures, the religion and the very language of the period. The detail is graphic; the relationship dynamics are timeless.

            I almost dropped the pitcher in my shock… George Viccars lay with his head pushed to the side by a lump the size of a newborn piglet, a great, shiny, yellow-purple knob of pulsing flesh. His face, half turned away from me because of the excrescence, was flushed scarlet, or rather, blotched, with shapes like rings of rose petals blooming under his skin. His blonde hair was a dark, wet mess upon his head, and his pillow was drenched with sweat. There was a sweet, pungent smell in the garret. A smell like rotting apples. (p.42)

Brooks is a brilliant writer. My attempts to capture her gift in weaving a story leave much to be desired! She always manages to capture the tension wrought in the human condition – to save others at the peril of losing your own life or not. And of course there’s the sexual tension: sometimes restrained; sometimes unbridled. Just enough. Never gratuitous.

Enjoy my Eyam pics. What a ride!

Entrance to Church, Eyam Village UK

The original 'plague houses' still standing.

Courtesy of the Eyam Museum - replicas of George Viccars (the tailor) and Anne Frith

Replica of plague attire - the 'beak' is full of herbs

Replica of Rev. Mompesson (Mompellion) meeting with Rev. Stanley

Replica of the boundary stone. The holes were filled with vinegar before coins were added in exchange for supplies from beyond the village.

Plague victim. 

Catherine Mompession's tomb. 1666

I reckon this is the ancient celtic cross Anna Frith clung to in her time of despair.