It wasn't even a good note. 'If you are reading this I am probably dead.' What sort of a note is that?
Patrick RothfussDenna is a wild thing," I explained. "Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don't say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna.
Patrick RothfussTag: love nature fantasy insight cruelty personality
It gets tiresome being spoken to as if you are a child, even if you happen to be one.
Patrick RothfussDid I ever mention I used to be a delivery driver too? I was. I can read a map. What’s more, using a brilliant mixture of zen navigation, Aristotelian logic, and pure rage I can get you your package and/or delicious sandwich relatively close to on-time.
Patrick RothfussYou see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while.
Patrick RothfussTag: women
Only priests and fools are fearless and I've never been on the best of terms with God.
Patrick RothfussThen I felt something inside me break and music began to pour out into the quiet. My fingers danced; intricate and quick they spun something gossamer and tremulous into the circle of light our fire had made. The music moved like a spiderweb stirred by a gentle breath, it changed like a leaf twisting as it falls to the ground, and it felt like three years Waterside in Tarbean, with a hollowness inside you and hands that ached from the bitter cold.
Patrick RothfussTag: music
I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.
Patrick RothfussTag: stories
Just pity him, my boy. Tomorrow we'll be on our way, but he'll have to keep his own disagreeable company until the day he dies.
Patrick RothfussThe day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.
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