“It was night again. 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...but no, of course there was no 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.”
-
“Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain. Classic thinking teaches us of the four doors of the mind, which everyone moves through according to their need.
First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door.
Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying 'time heals all wounds' is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door.
Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.
Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.”
-
“In the midst of silence Lyra stood by Lanre’s body and spoke his name. Her voice was a commandment. Her voice was steel and stone. Her voice told him to live again. But Lanre lay motionless and dead.
In the midst of fear Lyra knelt by Lanre’s body and breathed his name. Her voice beckoning. Her voice was love and longing. Her voice called him to live again. But Lance lay dead and cold.
In the midst of despair Lyra fell across Lanre’s body and wept his name. Her voice was a whisper. Her voice was echo and emptiness. Her voice begged him to live again. But Lanre lay breathless and dead.”
-
“‘All stories are true,’ Skarpi said. ‘But this one really happened, if that’s what you mean.’ He took another slow drink, then smiled again, his bright eyes dancing. ‘More or less. You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way. Too much truth confuses the facts. Too much honesty makes you sound insincere.’
-
“‘No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room.’ Kvothe frowned. ‘Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth that you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.’”
-
“I stopped walking. ‘Selas flower.’ She stopped and turned to look at me. ‘All this and you pick a flower I don’t know? What is a Selas flower? Why?’ ‘It is a deep red flower that grows on a strong vine. Its leaves are dark and delicate. They grow best in shadowy places, but the flower itself finds stray sunbeams to bloom in.’ I looked at her. ‘That suits you. There is much of you that is both shadow and light. It grows in deep forests, and it is rare because only skilled folk can tend one without harming it. It has a wonderous smell and is much sought and seldom found. . . ‘What flower would you bring me?’ I teased, thinking to catch her off guard. ‘A willow blossom,’ she said without a second’s hesitation. I thought for a long minute. ‘Do willows have blossoms?’ She looked up and to the side, thinking. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘A rare treat to be given one then.’ I chuckled. ‘Why a willow blossom?’ ‘You remind me of the Willow.’ She said easily. ‘Strong, deep-rooted, and hidden. You move easily when the storm comes, but never farther than you wish.’ I lifted my hands as if fending off a blow. ‘Cease these sweet words!’ I protested. ‘You seek to bend me to your will, but it will not work. Your flattery is naught to me but wind!’ She watched me for a moment, as if to make sure my tirade was complete. ‘Beyond all other trees,’ she said with a curl of a smile on her elegant mouth, ‘the Willow moves to the wind’s desire.’”
-
“Such was our conversation. But not only were we lacking touch to guide us, it was as if we were also strangely deaf. So we danced very carefully, unsure what music the other was listening to, unsure, perhaps, if the other was dancing at all.”
-
“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man’s will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself.”
- Prologue and excerpts of The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss
-
“I brought the lute out of its shabby case and began to tune it. It was not the finest lute in the Eolian. Not by half. Its neck was slightly bent, but not bowed. One of the pegs was loose and was prone to changing its tune ... I touched the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The varnish was scraped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the past, but that didn’t make it less lovely underneath. So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing
because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something
despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.”
- Excerpt from
Wise Man’s Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss
