In his author statement at the end of this astonishing book, Rothfuss says, equally astonishingly: ‘It’s the sort of story you write, then on your deathbed you remember it and ask a close friend to burn all your unpublished papers. Right after they clear your browser history, of course.’ (156)

Thankfully he was dissuaded from this procedure and the book is here for us to read. How to comment, though? All Rothufss’s writing makes me wonder how I dare call myself a writer at all. This one is miraculous.

It is a gem, a feather, a ring of gold, a hymn, a whisper, a roll of thunder, a joy, a sorrow, a symphony, a ballad, a fairy-tale and a pain.

It is not in any way whatsoever actually ‘like’ any one of the following: ‘Smith of Wootton Major’ or ‘Leaf by Niggle’ or ‘Of Mice and men’ or ‘Bleak House’ or ‘Ghormengast’, but in my head and my heart those are the books I’ve shelved it with.

I insist that you do not fail to read this book. Now, please.


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