Wednesday, 6 July 2016 04:47 pm
Book Review: The Slow Regard of Silent Things
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deckardcanineWhile the main trilogy volumes of The Kingkiller Chronicle are tomes, this spinoff is an unusually slim circa-150-pager with larger print and some B&W drawings. That doesn't make it geared toward a younger audience; after all, Patrick Rothfuss himself advises us in the foreword not to start here. Actually, he warns us that even preexisting fans may not want to read it, because it's missing a lot of what we'd expect. In the afterword, he describes how he almost didn't submit it for publication -- and much of the feedback is along the lines of "I like it, but I don't know who else would." I tentatively parrot that sentiment.
The focus this time around -- indeed, the only sapient character almost from start to finish -- is a late-teen-to-twenty-something waifish woman whom series protagonist Kvothe meets from time to time for little gift exchanges, but she hasn't affected his life story in a major way, at least not in the first two volumes. He and an eccentric professor are the only people she ever interacts with at all, and she disappears for long periods whenever Kvothe asks a personal question like her name. So he made up a name for her, Auri. This book indicates that Auri considers it a perfect name and thinks very highly of Kvothe because of it, tho she never thinks of him by name. I suspect a crush that will never come to fruition.
At any rate, this book documents Auri's activities in the week leading up to her anticipated next rendezvous with Kvothe. Rothfuss must have started his venture with curiosity. What does this impoverished, addled recluse do when alone? The answer: take every little thing seriously. She attributes emotions and personality to all sorts of objects (hence the title), manmade or otherwise; the dearest ones get names and masculine pronouns. She has a sense of what it takes to make everything just right. Think feng shui turned up to 11.
The third-person narration mirrors Auri's thoughts with some informal grammar, pseudo-English coinages, and slightly off words ("shimmerant"?). You can probably find examples on every page if not most paragraphs. Between language and animism, she usually comes across as an overgrown four-year-old, however poetically. Nevertheless, enough advanced words and concepts crop up to support Kvothe's theory that she used to be a student at the magical university, but like many -- especially those who study the art of Naming -- she went crazy. (If you were hoping to learn more about her past than that, too bad.) Unlike the others, she hides in "the Underthing" to avoid getting locked in the mental ward.
You may well think that this story sounds incredibly melancholy. It's bad enough being essentially homeless, hungry, and nearly friendless; why must Auri make life harder for herself by forgoing her blanket because it happened to twist and touch the floor? Why must she want to cry over something less consequential than spilled milk? Why must she feel wicked for ever wanting more than the barest necessities for herself, refusing to disturb the universe, as it were?
In truth, it's bittersweet. I don't think Auri's necessarily any more miserable than Kvothe and other characters. She has her deeply joyful moments, including at the beginning and end of this book. There's a certain satisfaction to be found in the belief that you're always making the world a better place -- and, indeed, must be the only one seeing to a need that nobody else recognizes. And some well-known philosophies proclaim the value of asceticism.
Besides, I'm not entirely sure she's crazy. In a world of magic, some of which defies scholarly explanation, who's to say that Auri merely imagines vibes from objects? Her worldview is quite internally consistent, and what first seems arbitrary tends to pay off later. She does a fair job taking care of herself under the circumstances; while she can't eat much, she makes a point to bathe regularly -- more so than most of quasi-medieval civilization, but not too often by modern standards. And of course, she's about as sweet and harmless as they come.
"OK," you may say, "so it's not unbearably sad. But does it get boring?" Well, I didn't mind the dearth of dialog, but I have to admit that my mind occasionally wandered and I soon stopped bothering to backtrack. From an outside perspective, the bulk of Auri's perceived conflicts have low stakes if any. I still cared how she felt; I just didn't always care why. Does that count as boredom?
At the same time, I understand why so many readers care in earnest. Auri taps into a popular sense of self-isolation. She appeals to our idiosyncratic, irrational, and superstitious sides, especially in the case of obsessive-compulsive tendencies. She expresses desires to be the master of herself and a good steward to everything else. And she waits avidly for the most special person in her life.
I'm glad to have spent the short time it took to finish TSRoST. I can't say it'll inspire me, but it makes a refreshing change of pace.
Feeling ready for a tome once again, I've picked up Christopher Paolini's Eragon. I've heard mixed reviews of it, but so far it's no worse than cliche.
The focus this time around -- indeed, the only sapient character almost from start to finish -- is a late-teen-to-twenty-something waifish woman whom series protagonist Kvothe meets from time to time for little gift exchanges, but she hasn't affected his life story in a major way, at least not in the first two volumes. He and an eccentric professor are the only people she ever interacts with at all, and she disappears for long periods whenever Kvothe asks a personal question like her name. So he made up a name for her, Auri. This book indicates that Auri considers it a perfect name and thinks very highly of Kvothe because of it, tho she never thinks of him by name. I suspect a crush that will never come to fruition.
At any rate, this book documents Auri's activities in the week leading up to her anticipated next rendezvous with Kvothe. Rothfuss must have started his venture with curiosity. What does this impoverished, addled recluse do when alone? The answer: take every little thing seriously. She attributes emotions and personality to all sorts of objects (hence the title), manmade or otherwise; the dearest ones get names and masculine pronouns. She has a sense of what it takes to make everything just right. Think feng shui turned up to 11.
The third-person narration mirrors Auri's thoughts with some informal grammar, pseudo-English coinages, and slightly off words ("shimmerant"?). You can probably find examples on every page if not most paragraphs. Between language and animism, she usually comes across as an overgrown four-year-old, however poetically. Nevertheless, enough advanced words and concepts crop up to support Kvothe's theory that she used to be a student at the magical university, but like many -- especially those who study the art of Naming -- she went crazy. (If you were hoping to learn more about her past than that, too bad.) Unlike the others, she hides in "the Underthing" to avoid getting locked in the mental ward.
You may well think that this story sounds incredibly melancholy. It's bad enough being essentially homeless, hungry, and nearly friendless; why must Auri make life harder for herself by forgoing her blanket because it happened to twist and touch the floor? Why must she want to cry over something less consequential than spilled milk? Why must she feel wicked for ever wanting more than the barest necessities for herself, refusing to disturb the universe, as it were?
In truth, it's bittersweet. I don't think Auri's necessarily any more miserable than Kvothe and other characters. She has her deeply joyful moments, including at the beginning and end of this book. There's a certain satisfaction to be found in the belief that you're always making the world a better place -- and, indeed, must be the only one seeing to a need that nobody else recognizes. And some well-known philosophies proclaim the value of asceticism.
Besides, I'm not entirely sure she's crazy. In a world of magic, some of which defies scholarly explanation, who's to say that Auri merely imagines vibes from objects? Her worldview is quite internally consistent, and what first seems arbitrary tends to pay off later. She does a fair job taking care of herself under the circumstances; while she can't eat much, she makes a point to bathe regularly -- more so than most of quasi-medieval civilization, but not too often by modern standards. And of course, she's about as sweet and harmless as they come.
"OK," you may say, "so it's not unbearably sad. But does it get boring?" Well, I didn't mind the dearth of dialog, but I have to admit that my mind occasionally wandered and I soon stopped bothering to backtrack. From an outside perspective, the bulk of Auri's perceived conflicts have low stakes if any. I still cared how she felt; I just didn't always care why. Does that count as boredom?
At the same time, I understand why so many readers care in earnest. Auri taps into a popular sense of self-isolation. She appeals to our idiosyncratic, irrational, and superstitious sides, especially in the case of obsessive-compulsive tendencies. She expresses desires to be the master of herself and a good steward to everything else. And she waits avidly for the most special person in her life.
I'm glad to have spent the short time it took to finish TSRoST. I can't say it'll inspire me, but it makes a refreshing change of pace.
Feeling ready for a tome once again, I've picked up Christopher Paolini's Eragon. I've heard mixed reviews of it, but so far it's no worse than cliche.