I’m a big believer in literary ideals, novels that are so good
that they become the standard by which all other books are judged in their
particular genre. For example, J.R.R. Tolkien’s
Lord of the Rings
trilogy and
The Hobbit
are the best fantasy novels ever written, while
Brian Hebert’s
Dune
is the epoch
for science fiction novels (excepting The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in
the hybrid science fiction-humour category). The Name of the Rose by Umberto
Eco is the finest murder mystery ever penned, as well as the best historical
fiction about 14
th
century monks.
Moby Dick
is the pinnacle of narrative fiction, and most
authors of today aren’t fit to clean Melville’s harpoon.
For every genre it’s the same, from John Le Carre’s superlative
spy novels, to J.K. Rowling’s children’s books, to Charles Dickens’s classical
books of humour and social iniquity.
The reason I mention all this is because I’m always on the
lookout for books that are compared favourably to other books that I consider
archetypes in their genre — preferably books reviewed by critics who are
well-read enough to make an educated comparison.
Enter a review by Onion A.V. Club writer Donna Bowman for The
Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss. Bowman calls it “the best fantasy novel
of the past 10 years,” and “one of the best stories told in any medium in a
decade.” She suggests that you “shelve The Name of the Wind beside the Lord of
the Rings, The Deed of Paksenarrion, The Wheel of Time — and look forward
to the day when it’s mentioned in the same breath, perhaps as first among
equals.”
Reading that review, and always keen to read something compared
favorably to Lord of the Rings, I checked the local book store. They didn’t
have any copies, and had never heard of the book. So I went to the library to
see if they had a copy in stock. They did it turned out, but I had to wait a
few breathless weeks for it to come back.
I began to suspect Bowman was full of B.S. the moment I finally
picked up my copy and saw the cover. Unlike the image that accompanied Bowman’s
glowing review, the copy at the library depicted a bare-chested redheaded man,
wind blowing through his hair, a lute over his shoulder. At first I thought I
had mistakenly picked up a Harlequin romance novel, but there was Patrick
Rothfuss’ name in block letters. Needless to say I felt a little embarrassed at
the checkout.
After reading it, I’m not sure that Bowman has read the Lord of
the Rings, or if she has I doubt she really read The Name of the Wind.
Comparing the two books favourably is pure literary sacrilege.
Rothfuss’s book starts in a promising way, introducing the main
character, Kvothe, as a mysterious innkeeper in some backwoods town with an
assistant who may or may not have supernatural powers. Enter an archivist who
recognizes the legendary Kvothe and agrees to spend three days and nights
writing his story.
From there the tale becomes insanely detailed, starting with
Kvothe’s early memories travelling with his family in a troop of actors and
entertainers. They come across an arcanist, who arouses Kvothe’s curiosity
about magic. Specifically, Kvothe wants to know the Name of the Wind so he can
summon it as he chooses.
Then his father composes a song that awakes the Chandrian, a
group of evil faeries who don’t like it when people write songs about them.
They slaughter the entire troop except for Kvothe who has no choice but to
catch a ride to the next city and become a beggar on its streets.
Eventually he makes his way to the university to study to
become an arcanist. Then some stuff happens. Then some other stuff happens.
Blah, blah, blah. The author skips over weeks and months, then focuses multiple
chapters on a single day playing lute in a tavern without omitting a single
detail. There’s one night spent hiding from a rock-eating dragon that feels
like it “drags on” for half the book.
Rothfuss’s chief fault is his inability to move the story
forward the way Tolkien could. There’s no flow. It’s like the miserable but
extremely well-selling Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, which reads like a Hardy
Boys novel and drags the readers along by a series of “and then’s.”
It’s also become standard for fantasy writers to copy Tolkien
by including poems and songs — partly as a homage to the epic poems on
which Lord of the Rings was based, and partly to show off their own poetic
chops. Unfortunately, the long poems are probably the worst part of the Lord of
the Rings series (though they work well in the The Hobbit), and they are
invariably the worst part of any LOTR wannabe novel. The songs in The Name of
the Wind are a perfect example.
Despite the sheer number of titles released, there’s a
pronounced shortage of quality fantasy novels out there. Comparing every
halfway decent novel — which The Name of the Wind is at times — to
LOTR only makes things worse because it raises expectations. Critics did it for
the Fionavar Tapestry series by Guy Gavriel Kay, and they did it for the Eragon
series by Christopher Paolini, and neither series comes close.
If anybody can recommend a series even nearly as good as LOTR, send me an e-mail at Andrew@piquenewsmagazine. If you’re looking for something nearly as good as LOTR, stay away from The Name of the Wind. And any reviews by Donna Bowman.
