Writing this “WTF” column each week has been the most creatively fulfilling thing I’ve ever done. It’s been a challenge and a joy to bring my own quirky journalistic style to The Lamron, a proud publication that traditionally holds itself to a more serious standard than my accusations regarding a beloved Christmas icon’s terrorist acts. At risk of sounding self-aggrandizing, this column has turned out better than I could have hoped, and I am proud of it.
Hopefully, it continues into the 2020-2021 school year, and The Lamron will continue to have this kind of creative critical space, but since this is the last “WTF” penned by W.C. Hoag I’m going to write this one for me; a reflection of sorts on my favorite story. This last column is about a kid who goes to magic school. No, not Harry Potter, but I suppose his story is a good place to start.
Harry’s journey is an optimistic one, a story founded on the strength of love and friendship. I was inspired by those seven years at Hogwarts as much as anyone, particularly by Dumbledore’s words in the series’ most beautiful chapter, “King’s Cross.” After speaking to the boy wizard from beyond the grave, the beloved headmaster tells Harry, “of course it is happening inside your head ... but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
Yet, personally, Harry and Co. never amounted to much more than stepping-stones for my journey into the fantastical—a gateway drug of sorts. While I was enchanted with the majesty of Rowling’s wizarding world, I became enthralled by Dumbledore’s argument that these stories could be as real as any memory, and perhaps even stronger. I needed more; Hogwarts made me realize I had an appetite that required an entirely different world to satiate.
I needed a protagonist who had stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings and burned down the town of Trebon. Someone who could spend the night with Felurian and leave with both his sanity and his life. Someone who was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. Someone who tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. Who has talked to Gods, loved women and written songs that make the minstrels weep.
You probably haven’t heard of him. The Name of the Wind, WTF?
Patrick Rothfuss’ masterpiece of contemporary fantasy is a coming-of-age story told in retrospect. The novel introduces readers to Kote, the young, sullen owner of the Waystone Inn. Kote’s life is a sad one, bitter and lonely like a stray cat calling to the moon.
As the days go by, however, the famed Chronicler comes knocking on the Waystone’s door and we find out that Kote is not who he appears to be. Chronicler puzzles out Kote’s true identity: Kvothe—pronounced nearly the same as “Quothe”—a stereotypical hero of lore. After a significant round of begging, Chronicler convinces Kvothe to tell his life’s story for the historical record. This personal, first-hand account composes most of the novel.
Writing this article has been difficult; I’ve written and deleted countless thoughts as I’ve tried to distill what this story means to me down to a few hundred words. From that brief summary I conjured up it may seem that The Name of the Wind is basic, archetypal fantasy fare and I suppose, in some ways, it is. If that’s all it were, however, the story wouldn’t have stuck with me for the eight years since I first read it.
Like Harry Potter before it, NotW really drove home the intrinsic, subtle power words carry. Not just any word, mind you, but the proper, correct way of things: true Names. Describing how it feels to read this book, however, is an act of futility. As Rothfuss says, “Using words to talk of words is like using a pencil to draw a picture of itself, on itself. Impossible. Confusing. Frustrating … but there are other ways to understanding.”
The novel’s prologue establishes a bewitching metaphor explaining a silence of three parts: general silence stemming from lacking noise, complimentary silence from pointed lack of discussion and the “patient, cut-flower silence of a man who is waiting to die.” Like the silence enveloping Kote and the Waystone Inn, my own experience with The Name of the Wind can be organized into three distinct interpretations.
The first interpretation came during the first time an ambitious, 15-year-old W.C. sought out a fantasy book more mature than the YA novels he had consumed up to that point. I’ve never consumed another story that sounds the same as NotW. Obviously, I’m not speaking of its plot, as this article already established that Kvothe’s story hits many traditional fantasy beats. Rather, it’s Rothfuss’ lyrical prose that opened little 15-year-old W.C.’s eyes to words that made him experience emotions he had only read about up until that point.
The appeal of Odysseus or Gilgamesh’s exploits became real to me during that first read of NotW. The novel isn’t a poem, but poetic language that is “lovely as the moon: not flawless, perhaps, but perfect” made me consider poetry’s appeal for the first time. Kvothe’s purposeful retelling of his tale is a contemporary, popular poetic epic like the ancient works of Homer or Virgil.
My second NotW interpretation came years later, when I returned to Kvothe and the world of Temerant after finishing my first year of college. Because the novel is a framework story, this reading caused me to realize that Kvothe’s retelling—particularly regarding his time at The University—takes on the same effect as when anyone looks back on their time at college. Vignettes from this time in his life touch on dalliances with friends, relationships with professors and the general work and studies necessary to thrive and get by in any institute of higher learning.
Since, during this reading, I had already begun my own journey through The (State) University (of New York College at Geneseo), I was able to put my time here in a new context. Sure, parents, cousins and family friends were always telling me how college was going to be the best time of my life, but it was when I realized the fantastical protagonist of my favorite story was telling me the same thing that I really started to pay attention. Put plainly, this second interpretation inspired me to be far more appreciative of my time at Geneseo than I otherwise would have been without the melancholic lens of hindsight.
Finally, as I reflect on The Name of the Wind a few weeks before I’m set to graduate, I interpret the story more as a rumination on personal growth than anything else. Kvothe’s story is beautiful and poignant, morose in only the way growing up can be. Although fantasy is often condemned as a juvenile pursuit—stories about fairies and goblins told to entertain little babies—NotW is a thoroughly adult meditation on loss, grief and growing up.
On its surface the novel reads as an optimistic coming-of-age tale, a first-hand account of how heroes and legends are made. Further examination, however, reveals that the fantastical setting is merely a backdrop for an all-too-real meditation on the stories we tell about ourselves and the pain of embracing adulthood.
This interpretation is not an easy thing to notice. It’s in the weight of long-forgotten textbooks collecting dust on my bedroom shelves. It’s in the reluctant clicking of my keyboard as I type out these last words of my favorite thing I’ve ever done. This interpretation is mine, just as this “WTF” column has been mine. It’s the patient, cut-flower acceptance of a man who is waiting to graduate.
W.C Hoag describes how he sees his own college journey in “The Name of the Wind”, pictured above. (Courtesy of Creative Commons)