Patrick Rothfuss Quotes About Name Of The Wind
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It's the questions we can't answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he'll look for his own answers.
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You 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.
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It wasn't even a good note. 'If you are reading this I am probably dead.' What sort of a note is that?
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There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.
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You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way.
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There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.
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You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared.
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Only priests and fools are fearless and I've never been on the best of terms with God.
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Remember this son, if you forget everything else. A poet is a musician who can't sing. Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart. And, some men's minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly, no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.
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My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you're lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind even after all these years.
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You lack the requisite spine and testicular fortitude to study under me.
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Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.
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Congratulations. That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen. Ever.
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I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me.
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Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man's will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself.
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Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart, and some men's minds are woefully small targets.
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I'll string a fiddle with your guts and make you play it while I dance.
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I also felt guilty about the three pens I'd stolen, but only for a second. And since there was no convenient way to give them back, I stole a bottle of ink before I left.
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Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain.
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But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. This is rare and pure and perfect.
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We are more than the parts that form us.
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It's the questions we can't answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think.
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I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned
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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.
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Dawn was coming. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
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The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.
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It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.
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It's 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.
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Do not mistake me for my mask. You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath.
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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.
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