Quotes by Patrick Rothfuss

I love her more than just a little. I think its because were both somewhat broken, in our own odd ways. More importantly, were both aware of it.

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

Why, Reshi?The words poured out of Bast in a sudden gush. Why did you stay there when it was so awful?Kvothe nodded to himself, as if he had been expecting the question. Where else was there for me to go, Bast? Everyone I knew was dead.Not everyone, Bast insisted. There was Abenthy. You could have gone to him.Hallowfell was hundreds of miles away, Bast, Kvothe said wearily as he wandered to the other side of the room and moved behind the bar. Hundreds of miles without my fathers maps to guide me. Hundredsof miles without wagons to ride or sleep in. Without help of any sort, or money, or shoes. Not an impossible journey, I suppose. But for a young child, still numb with the shock of losing his parents. . . .Kvothe shook his head. No. In Tarbean at least I could beg or steal. Id managed to survive in the forest for a summer, barely. But over the winter? He shook his head. I would have starved or frozen todeath.Standing at the bar, Kvothe filled his mug and began to add pinches of spice from several small containers, then walked toward the great stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face. Youre right, of course. Anywhere would have been better than Tarbean.He shrugged, facing the fire. But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves. Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family.Bast opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down at the tabletop, frowning.Kvothe looked over his shoulder and gave a gentle smile. Im not saying its rational, Bast. Emotions by their very nature are not reasonable things. I dont feel that way now, but back then I did. I remember.He turned back to the fire. Bens training has given me a memory so clean and sharp I have to be careful not to cut myself sometimes.Kvothe took a mulling stone from the fire and dropped it into his wooden mug. It sank with a sharp hiss.The smell of searing clove and nutmeg filled the room.Kvothe stirred his cider with a long-handled spoon as he made his way back to the table. You must also remember that I was not in my right mind. Much of me was still in shock, sleeping if you will. I needed something, or someone, to wake me up.He nodded to Chronicler, who casually shook his writing hand to loosen it, then unstoppered his inkwell.Kvothe leaned back in his seat. I needed to be reminded of things I had forgotten. I needed a reason to leave. It was years before I met someone who could do those things. He smiled at Chronicler. Before I met Skarpi.

Dawn was coming. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

If she was beautiful at rest she was doubly so awake. Asleep she was a painting of a fire. Awake she was the fire itself.

So much was so easy. Glamour was second nature. It was just making folk see what they wanted to see. Fooling folk was as simple as singing. Tricking folk and telling lies, it was like breathing.But this? Convincing someone of the truth that they were too twisted to see? How could you even begin?

Lies are simpler, and most of the time they make better sense.

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.

Sharing silence between us. Sometimes is all you can share.

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.

Its like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.

I would never normally approach a woman in this way, but I couldnt help but notice that you have the eyes of a lady I was once desperately in love with. What a shame to love only once, she said, showing her white teeth in a wicked smile. Ive heard some men can manage twice or even more.I ignored her gibe. I am only a fool once. Never will I love again.

She taught me I should never do anything in private I did not want talked about in public, and cautioned me not to talk in my sleep.

The point isnt to win the game. The point is to play a beautiful game. (paraphrased)

Looters become looted, while time and tide make us mercenaries all.

If I ever met someone without a single shadow on their heart, it was surely a child too young for speaking.

Are you hurt?Absolutely, I said. Especially in my everywhere.

I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.

Think of all the stories youve heard, Bast. You have a young boy, the hero. His parents are killed he sets out for vengeance. What next?Bast hesitated, his expression puzzled. Chronicler answered the question instead. He finds help. A clever talking squirrel. An old drunken swordsman. A mad hermit in the woods. That sort of thing.Kvothe nodded. Exactly! He finds the mad hermit in the woods, proves himself worthy, and learns the names of all things, just like Taborlin the Great. Then with these powerful magics at his beck and call, what does he do?Chronicler shrugged. He finds the villains and kills them. Of course, Kvothe said grandly. Clean, quick, and easy as lying. We know how it ends practically before it starts. Thats why stories appeal to us. They give us the clarity and simplicity our real lives lack.

This is how deeply rooted stories are, folks. We crave them before we can walk, and we start telling them before we can talk.