I set aside my evening for one purpose. To read a new book I ordered by Patrick Rothfuss titled, The Slow Regard of Silent Things. I’ve read both of his Kingkiller Chronicle books, and was completely impressed by his storytelling abilities. He writes like nobody else I’ve read. I assumed he was British for some reason, but now I think he’s American. Normally, I don’t decide how I feel about an author until I’ve read at least two or three of their novels. In this case, I knew before I even finished his first book that I was a fan.
I was right, and the second book in the series was equally excellent. I tend to read my favorite books more than once, as I did with the Kingkiller Chronicles. I went searching to find out if he’s released another book in the series. I came across The Slow Regard of Silent Things. The reviews were all over the place, and some were by people who were clearly pissed off over this book. That was different. Usually you only see that sort of variety in book reviews of novels that tear apart a religion. I know because I sometimes read that sort of book review for entertainment purposes. Richard Dawson reviews are a personal favorite, despite my being an agnostic. He’s an idiot, but attracts the type of morons that believe their atheism is based solely on superior intellect. That’s just so funny.
So I curled up in my reading chair, cat in my lap, and read my new book. It’s not very long, and is intended to be informative of a particular character in the series that’s mysterious and intriguing. I liked her just in the bits that were included prior to this book. But now, I love her. She’s fascinating. He never goes into detail about why she’s a strange bird, but he drops subtle hints. I think when she was a student, she was raped. The hint was tiny, but as a rape survivor, it shouted at me. It made perfect sense. Her world was suddenly, violently shattered. And she figured out how to put it back together in a very quiet, hidden way.
She makes her world small enough for her to process and live in without losing herself, (again). She hasn’t forgotten what happened. She’s pushed the horror out of her small new world and contained it in small, hidden places. At one point, her anxiety spins out of control, and you see the fear hidden in plain sight. You see the desperate need for any semblance of control, but on her terms. In a very polite, proper, selfless, and always perfect way. Reading how she’s rebuilt her world and reality is cathartic, sweet, endearing, and healing. I’m so glad I read this book. It’s as if it was written specifically for me. Logic says this is not possible, but my heart doesn’t care, and has embraced it like a 2-year-old screaming, “Mine!”.