Patrick Rothfuss Quotes

He spoke gently, laughed often, and never exercised his wit at the expense of others.

His voice is like a thunderstorm, and his hands know every secret hidden deep beneath the cool, dark earth.

She's stolen his tongue as well as his heart. All his words are for her. He can spare none for us.

What makes you think I am not teaching you? Aside from the fact that you refuse to learn.

There is a sort of camaraderie that rarely exists except between men who have fought the same enemies and know the same women.

Science is just magic with better PR.

In the midst of silence Lyra stood by Lanre's body and spoke his name. Her voice was a commandment. Her voice was steel and stone. Her voice told him to live again. But Lanre lay motionless and dead"
"In the midst of fear Lyra knelt by Lanre's body and breathed his name. Her voice beckoning. Her voice was love and longing. Her voice called him to live again. But Lanre lay dead and cold."
"In the midst of despair Lyra fell across Lanre's body and wept his name. Her voice was a whisper. Her voice was echo and emptiness. Her voice begged him to live again. But Lanre lay breathless and dead

Kvothe continued, smiling himself "I see you laugh. Very well, for simplicity's sake, let us assume I am the center of creation. In doing this, let us pass over innumerable boring stories: the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance." His smile broadened. "Mine.

It's hard for a newbie author to get noticed.

Yes, I cried at the end of it. I did then, and I have every time since. Even a reading of the story aloud will bring tears to my eyes. In my opinion, anyone who isn't moved by it is less than human inside.

One reason we love fiction is because stories have a comforting shape. They provide a resolution that's lacking in our regular lives.

My thought is, if you're a book lover, you're going to enjoy winning a book even if it's not something you'd ordinarily pick up on your own. It's a chance to expand your horizons a little.

It was shivery and scant. Scared. Skint. But just around the edges it was still scintillant.

I don't feel beholden to follow the real world at all. The important thing is to know WHY things turned out the way they did. You need to understand the reasons for events, or at least be able to make reasonable guesses about them.

When someone writes something dazzlingly brilliant, people want to imitate it. The result is a lot of less-than-brilliant knock-offs. Elves, Dwarves, Goblin army, cursed ring, evil sorcerer. Tolkien did it. It rocked. Let's move on. Let's do something new.

I've waited a long time to show these flowers how pretty you are.

Wilem tapped Simmon's shoulder."He's telling the truth."
Simmon glanced over at him."Why would you say that?"
"He sounds more sincere then that when he lies.

I'm just very careful with my words when I write. Obsessively careful. I'm the sort of person who worries about the difference between "slim" and "slender.

Out of class, Elxa Dal was charming, soft-spoken, and even a little ridiculous when the mood was on him. But when he taught, his personality strode back and forth between mad prophet and galley-slave drummer.

I can't give you the moon," the tinker said. "She doesn't belong to me. She belongs only to herself.

As with many things, hesitation is better than hurry.

Gentle. Which people see as weak.

If you want to write a fantasy story with Norse gods, sentient robots, and telepathic dinosaurs, you can do just that. Want to throw in a vampire and a lesbian unicorn while you're at it? Go ahead. Nothing's off limits. But the endless possibility of the genre is a trap. It's easy to get distracted by the glittering props available to you and forget what you're supposed to be doing: telling a good story. Don't get me wrong, magic is cool. But a nervous mother singing to her child at night while something moves quietly through the dark outside her house? That's a story. Handled properly, it's more dramatic than any apocalypse or goblin army could ever be.

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

In my defense, I could have dispensed with the truth entirely and told a much better story. Lies are simpler, and most of the time they make better sense. Losi

I heard you were in sime trouble," I said nonchalantly. "So I thought I'd come and help.

Three circles. Perfect for asking. It was better to be gentle and polite. It was the worst sort of selfishness to force yourself upon the world.

Some things simply were too true to stay. Some merely came to visit for a while.

No breath of wind disturbed the surface of the water. So as we climbed out onto the fallen stone the stars reflected themselves in double fashion; as above, so below.

There is a difference between something being essential, and it being necessary. If you take your favorite book and strip it down to what is merely essential to tell the story, it would be butchery. The end result would horrify you. Essential is the bones of the story, but the soul lives somewhere else.

The figures of our speaking are like pictures of names. Vague, weak names, but names nonetheless. Be mindful of them.

Looking up, I saw her and all I could think was, beautiful. Beautiful.

Whenever you write a character, you want to make them themselves, you want to make them unique. You don't want fifty characters in your book and they all pretty much act and think the same except they have different colored hair.

And if you had the right sort of mind, the sort of mind that actually sees what it looks at, you might notice that his eyes were odd. If your mind had the rare talent of not being fooled by its own expectations, you might notice something else about them, something strange and wonderful.

They were the best sort of friends. The sort everyone hopes for but no one deserves, least of all me.

You know, I could have carried you.

We are more than the parts that form us.

Poor manners on my part. What is your name?"
"Ria."
"Ria, is that short for Rian?"
"Yes, it is," she smiled.
"Rian, would you please cross your legs?"
The request was made with such an earnest tone that not even a titter escaped the class. Looking puzzled, Rian crossed her legs.
"Now that the gates of hell are closed," Hemme said in his normal rougher tones. "We can begin.

Daisies, simple and sweet. Daisies are the way to win my heart.

there wasn't much difference between the University and the streets of Tarbean. No matter where you are, people are basically the same. Besides,

I sow salt because the choice is between weeds and nothing. - Lanre

I thought I might be a little crazy." "You still might be," she said. "I'm not a good touchstone to use for judging your sanity." "Do you feel crazy?" She shook her head, a half smile curling the corner of her mouth. "No. How about you?" "Not particularly." "That's either good or bad, depending," she said. "How do you propose we go about solving the mystery of the ages?

If one student in ten had half his fire I'd teach with a whip and chair instead of chalk and slate.

No matter how you spend your life, your wit will defend you more often than a sword. Keep it sharp!

Denna moved through the crowd with slow grace. Not the stiffness that passes for grace in courtly settings, but a natural leisure of movement. A cat does not think of stretching, it stretches. But a tree does not even do this. A tree simply sways without the effort of moving itself. That is how she moved.

Half a loaf being better than none, I

Money is nice, but the world is full of things that people would never sell. Favors and obligation are worth far, far more.

A clever, thoughtless person is one of the most terrifying things there is.

He beat you. And as I spoke the words I felt a terrible anger come together inside me. It wasn't hot and furious, as some of my flashes of temper tend to be. This was different, slow and cold.

When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.

After the battle was finished and the enemy was set beyond the doors of stone, survivors found Lanre's body, cold and lifeless near the beast he had slain.

There was a door, but it was terribly bashful, so Auri politely pretended not to see it.

In fact, Kote himself seemed rather sickly. Not exactly unhealthy, but hollow. Wan. Like a plant that's been moved into the wrong sort of soil and, lacking something vital, has begun to wilt.

Asking to hold a musician's instrument is roughly similar to asking to kiss a man's wife.

I was wondering, Auri. Would you mind showing me the Underthing?"
Auri looked away, suddenly shy. "Kvothe, I thought you were a gentleman," she said, tugging self-consciously at her ragged shirt. "Imagine, asking to see a girl's underthing." She looked down, her hair hiding her face.
I held my breath for a moment, choosing my next words carefully lest I startle her back underground. While I was thinking, Auri peeked at me through the curtain of her hair.
"Auri," I asked slowly, "are you joking with me?"
She looked up and grinned. "Yes I am," she said proudly. "Isn't it wonderful?

Distrust turns quickly to dislike

I gave a silent prayer of thanks that I didn't seem to be lousy. I had probably been too filthy for any self-respecting louse to take up residence.

I slept and I woke. She gave me a ring made from a leaf, a cluster of golden berries, a flower that opened and closed at the stroking of a finger ...
And once, when I startled awake with my face wet and my chest aching, she reached out to lay her hand on top of mine. The gesture was so tentative, her expression so anxious, you would think she had never touched a man before. As if she was worried I might break or burn or bite. Her cool hand lay on mine for a moment, gentle as a moth. She squeezed my hand softly, waited, then pulled away.
It struck me as odd at the time. But I was too clouded with confusion and grief to think clearly. Only now, looking back, do I realize the truth of things. With all the awkwardness of a young lover, she was trying to comfort me, and she didn't have the slightest idea how.

He taught me more than all the others set end to end. 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.

You would think that would have helped. That a gift and clasped hands would make things right between us. But the silence was back now, stronger than before. Thick enough that you could spread it on your bread and eat it. There are some silences that even words cannot drive away. And while Denna was touching my hand, she wasn't holding it. There is a world of difference.

Fantasy is my favorite genre for reading and writing. We have more options than anyone else, and the best props and special effects. That means if you want to write a fantasy story with Norse gods, sentient robots, and telepathic dinosaurs, you can do just that. Want to throw in a vampire and a lesbian unicorn while you're at it? Go ahead.

What other option did I have, now that words had failed me? What do any of us have when words fail us?

Finally, say that she was beautiful. That is all that can be well said. That she was beautiful, through to her bones, despite any flaw or fault.

The slow regard of silent things had wafted off the moisture in the air.

Being able to think about two disparate things at once, aside from being wonderfully efficient, was roughly akin to being able to sing harmony with yourself.

For me, language is something that I've always loved. When I read, that's what I look for. When I write, that's what I strive for.

I've got an idea for a modern day faerie tale that I think would made a great short novel. But I just don't have the time to work on it right now. I'm way too busy with the 'Kingkiller Chronicles' and being a new dad.

I decided to dub the room with the good chairs my lutery. Or perhaps my performatory. I would need a while to come up with something suitably pretentious.

The gesture was so tight with rage she feared she'd snap and crack the world in two.

Halfpenny a head. That's right. Anyone without a head gets in free.

I knew it to be good advice, and ignored it

Language is inexorably tied to power and understanding. And power and understanding are the roots of magic. Just the act of writing something down is a magical act.

Love is such a thing. You have knowledge of what it is, but it defies careful explication."
"Love is a subtle concept," I admitted. "It's elusive, like justice, but it can be defined.

It's a horrible thing to have your body fail you. You never think about it when you're young.

Kvothe looked at Bast for a long moment. "Oh Bast," he said softly to his student. His smile was gentle and sad. "I know what sort of story I'm telling. This is no comedy."
"This is the end of the story, Bast. We all know that." Kvothe's voice was matter-of-fact, as casual as if he were describing yesterday's weather. "I have led an interesting life, and this reminiscence has a certain sweetness to it. But ... "
Kvothe drew a deep breath and let it out gently. " ... but this is not a dashing romance. This is no fable where folk come back from the dead. It's not a rousing epic meant to stir the blood. No.
We all know what kind of story this is.

No. You should take pleasure in following the Lethani. If you fight well, you should take pride in doing a thing well. For the fighting itself you should feel only duty and sorrow. Only barbarians and madmen take pleasure in combat. Whoever loves the fight itself has left the Lethani behind.

Any joy that grows here is quickly choked by weeds. I am not some monster who destroys out of a twisted pleasure. I sow salt because the choice is between weeds and nothing.

So," Chronicler said. "Subjunctive mood." "At best," Kvothe said, "it is a pointless thing. It needlessly complicates the language. It offends me.

There are two types of secrets. There are secrets of the mouth and secrets of the heart.

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

Don't put beets in the soup, Reshi. They're foul.

A bristling fox is better than a deranged, half-shod idiot.

Congratulations. That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen. Ever.

There's looking and there's looking. When some men look at you it's a greasy thing. It makes you want to have a bath. With other men it's nice. It helps you know you're beautiful.

The point isn't to win the game. The point is to play a beautiful game. (paraphrased)

I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them."
"You mean, immortal, don't you?" Chronicler asked uncertainly.

See. I touched the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The varnish was scraped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the past, but that didn't make it less lovely underneath. So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because.That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect. Stanchion made a sweeping gesture

What is a whore?"
Unsurprisingly, that hadn't been one of the words we had shared over the last span of days. For half a moment I considered lying, but there was no way I could manage it. "He says your mother is a person men pay money to have sex with."
Tempi turned back to the mercenary and nodded graciously. "You are very kind. I thank you.

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And if Hollywood has taught us anything, it's that cool props and special effects are not enough. Story comes first. Everything depends on story.

Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold.

Elodin looked at me. "What a remarkably honest threat," he said. "Normally they're much more growlish and gristly than that."
"Gristly?" I asked, emphasizing the 't.' "Don't you mean grisly?"
"Both," he said. "Usually there's a lot of, 'I'll break your knees. I'll break your neck.'" He shrugged. "Makes me think of gristle, like when you're boning a chicken.

Auri grew serious. "Now close your eyes and bend down so I can give you your second present."

Puzzled, I closed my eyes and bent at the waist, wondering if she had made me a hat as well.

I felt her hands on either side of my face, then she gave me a tiny, delicate kiss in the middle of my forehead.

Surprised, I opened my eyes. But she was already standing several steps away, her hands clasped nervously behind her back. I couldn't think of anything to say.

Auri took a step forward. "You are special to me," she said seriously, her face grave. "I want you to know I will always take care of you." She reached out tentatively and wiped at my cheeks. "No. None of that tonight. This is your third present. If things are bad, you can come and stay with me in the Underthing. It is nice there, and you will be safe."

"Thank you, Auri," I said as soon as I was able. "You are special to me, too."

"Of course I am," she said matter-of-factly. "I am as lovely as the moon.

Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become. Teccam claims it is better to have a mouthful of poison than a secret of the heart. Any fool will spit out poison, he says, but we hoard these painful treasures. We swallow hard against them every day, forcing them deep inside us. There they sit, growing heavier, festering. Given enough time, they cannot help but

Sometimes a situation grows so tangled that words are useless.

It's quite enough to have a secret. Anything more would be greedy.

Nothing makes a man feel older than a young woman.

When my blood tells me to wander, I know enough to trust it.

When you read a fantasy novel part of the fun is getting to explore a new world. Everyone knows that. But I believe the same is true about characters. You can explore interesting people in the same way that you explore a town or a culture.

I wanted to get inside so badly I could taste it. It probably shows a perverse element of my personality that even though I was finally inside the Archives, surrounded by endless secrets, that I was drawn to the one locked door I had found. Perhaps it is human nature to seek out hidden things. Perhaps it is simply my nature.

She smiled like knife on a velvet, she stretched like cat on the sun.