kvothe

...If there's one thing I'm well versed in it's my own good qualities.

I am sorry to tell you this thing. Youu are a good man, and a pretty thing. But still, you are only a man. All you have to offer the world is your anger.

After an awkward pause, Bast extended his hand. Chronicler hesitated for a bare moment before reaching out quickly, as if he were sticking his hand into a fire. Nothing happened, both of them seemed moderately surprised."Amazing, isn't it?" Kvothe addressed them bitingly. "Five fingers and flesh with blood beneath. One could almost believe that on the other end of that hand lay a person of some sort.

Kvothe looked at Bast for a long moment. __h Bast,_ he said softly to his student. His smile was gentle and sad. __ know what sort of story I__ telling. This is no comedy.___his is the end of the story, Bast. We all know that._ Kvothe__ voice was matter-of-fact, as casual as if he were describing yesterday__ weather. __ have led an interesting life, and this reminiscence has a certain sweetness to it. But . . .__vothe 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__ not a rousing epic meant to stir the blood. No.We all know what kind of story this is.

But only a fool claims there is no such thing as love. When you see two young ones taring at each other with dewy eyes, there it is. So thick you can spread it on your brread and eat it. When you see a mother with her child, you see love. When you feel it roil in your belly, you know what it is. Even if you cannot give voice to it in words.

Elodin pointed down the street. "What color is that boy's shirt?""Blue.""What do you mean by blue? Describe it."I struggled for a moment, failed. "So blue is a name?""It is a word. 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."My head was swimming by this point. "I still don't understand."He laid a hand on my shoulder. "Using words to talk of words is like using a pencil to draw a picture of itself, on itself. Impossible. Confusing. Frustrating." He lifted his hands high above his head as if stretching for the sky. "But there are other ways to understanding!" he shouted, laughing like a child. He threw both arms to the cloudless arch of sky above us, still laughing. "Look!" he shouted tilting his head back. "Blue! Blue! Blue!

This isn't the hand of some swooning princess who sits tatting lace and waiting for some prince to save her. This is the hand of a woman who would climb a rope of her own hair to freedom, or kill a captor ogre in his sleep. And this is the hand of a woman who would have made it through the fire on her own if I hadn't been there. Singed perhaps, but safe.

Lord but I dislike poetry. How can anyone remember words that aren't put to music?

You,_ I said, __re sweet music in a distant room.

I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me."She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years."I choked and clenched my teeth."You can say it,"Auri said softly."It's okay if you say it.""I'm never going to see her again,"I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest."It's okay,"Auri said softly."I'm here. You're safe.

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.

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

Maple. MaypoleCatch and carry.Ash and Ember.Elderberry.Woolen. Woman.Moon at night.Willow. Window.Candlelight.Fallow farrow.Ash and oak.Bide and borrow.Chimney smoke.Barrel. Barley.Stone and stave.Wind and water.Misbehave.

Wilem: 'What is the word for that here? A man who is intimate with both women and men?''Lucky?' Denna suggested. 'Tired? Ambidextrous?''Ambisextrous,' I corrected.

She washed he hands,then looked at my side. "you haven't even had it stitched?" She said incredulously."I've been rather busy," I said. "With the running like hell and hiding all night.

Kvothe continued, smiling himself __ see you laugh. Very well, for simplicity__ 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. __ine.

You are unmannerly,sharp-tounged, and show no respect for your betters,which is practically everyone given your lowly ravel birth.""I am Edema Ruh to my bones.That means my blood is red.It means I breathe the free air and walk where my feet take me.I do not cringe and fawn like a dog at a man's title.That looks like pride to people who have spent their lives cultivating supple spines"-Kvothe

Sought we the Scrivani word-work of SurthurLong-lost in ledger all hope forgotten.Yet fast-found for friendship fair the book-bringerHot comes the huntress Fela, flushed with findingBreathless her breast her high blood risingTo ripen the red-cheek rouge-bloom of beauty.__hat sort of thing,_ Simmon said absently, his eyes still scanning the pages in front of him.I saw Fela turn her head to look at Simmon, almost as if she were surprised to see him sitting there.No, it was almost as if up until that point, he__ just been occupying space around her, like a piece of furniture. But this time when she looked at him, she took all of him in. His sandy hair, the line of his jaw, the span of his shoulders beneath his shirt. This time when she looked, she actually saw him.Let me say this. It was worth the whole awful, irritating time spent searching the Archives just to watch that moment happen. It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn__ notice it herself. It wasn__ dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it__ there, down where you can__ see, kindling.