Framing Heroism in Patrick Rothfuss’ The Kingkiller Chronicle
What High Fantasy Can Teach Us About Human Greatness
An Ideal, and a Question
With a consistent, beautiful world and well-drawn hero, Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind serves as an effective counterpoint to other sword-and-sorcery tales which might engender or embrace the public’s growing cynicism towards the high fantasy genre.
The novel’s protagonist, lynchpin, and — according to the Incredible Hulk, at least — greatest flaw is the troubled genius Kvothe (rhymes with quoth.) Kvothe is — or was — equal parts renaissance man and fantasy hero. For a generation of fantasy fans weaned on RPGs demanding specialization — Fighter, Mage, Thief — Kvothe’s the character who says “eff that” and chooses everything: A lockpick and a liar, a bard and an academic, a wizard in a setting where capital “M” magic is rare and lowercase “m” magic is still damned impressive. In sum, Kvothe is either a high fantasy mirror to reality’s own greats or a toxic Marty Stu.
He is also, when we first encounter him in the novel’s framing device, a frightfully vivid portrait of burnout and post-traumatic stress disorder, a self-described disaster whose greatness of mind may’ve outstripped his greatness of spirit. His tongue — once equal parts wit, music and magic — has gone quiet, a silence Rothfuss describes as the “patient, cut-flower sound of a man waiting to die.”
Cheerful.
But it’s this unhappy fact of Kvothe’s existence which salvages him from the “Marty Stu” reading of his character. Instead of the portrait of an ideal man, Kvothe becomes a question: What is greatness?
Please note that the following analysis will contain spoilers.
Framing Heroism
To address the question of greatness, we must first give Kvothe some context — understanding his fall from grace requires an understanding of the story’s framing device.
(If you’ve read The Name of the Wind recently, feel free to skim through this next part.)
The chipper “waiting to die” image ends the novel’s opening scene: a sparse chapter featuring the traumatized Kvothe, now living as a small-town innkeeper under the assumed name Kote, which translates to ‘disaster’ in an in-universe tongue. Kote listens in on some of his patrons, who’re grumbling about the resurgence of a species of spider-like monsters. There’s a powerful sense that there’s something wrong with the world they’re inhabiting, just as it’s plainly apparent the innkeeper Kote suffers from a horrible, crippling depression.
Into this small world, a reputable but unfortunate scholar titled “the Chronicler” blunders. The Chronicler is equal parts scribe and journalist, and — very conveniently — the best at what he does. After Kote saves his life from the aforementioned spider monsters, Chronicler starts pulling the thread and realizing he’s in the company of the hero Kvothe, the greatest man of his age, slated to become one of the titans of history proper — that is, before his abrupt disappearance from the face of the earth.
After a few arguments between this truth-hungry academic and our recalcitrant fallen hero, it’s established that Kvothe will tell Chronicler his life story over the course of the next three days — The Name of the Wind spans the first day of Kvothe’s account. We also establish a certain degree of animosity between Chronicler and Kvothe’s servant Bast, a mysterious young man whom discerning readers will pretty much immediately file under “more than he seems.” The temperamental and ideological differences between Kvothe’s two friends, Chronicler and Bast, will become very important in understanding the story’s themes — especially at the end of the novel.
So Kvothe begins telling his tale of heroism gone wrong in his own words, his talents as a bard and storyteller on full display, as are his flawless memory and troubled emotional state. What follows is Rothfuss’ emotionally-textured take on many genre staples: The appearance of a wise mentor figure who introduces the hero to magic. An idyllic childhood among a performing circus, cut short when the story’s villains — a legion of demons known as the Chandrian — murder Kvothe’s parents. A few years on the mean streets of the setting’s major urban center. Then — and herein lies the story’s meat — the teenaged Kvothe’s university days. Cue friends and rivals, teenage lovesickness, and tentative inroads towards solving the mystery of the Chandrian.
Throughout the tale, Kvothe will periodically come up for air — so to speak — to chat with Chronicler and Bast. Rothfuss will generally take this opportunity to fill in a gap in Kvothe’s own cognition; for instance, in one of the novel’s sadder scenes, Kvothe insists he’s made peace with the death of his parents, only for the third-person omniscient narrator in the framing device to show the reader his grief. We also find out more about Bast in these intermissions. He’s not just President of the Kvothe fan club. He’s also one of the Fair Folk: A satyr, trickster and high-fantasy powerhouse in his own right.
Kvothe’s first-day narrative ends on a note of triumph: He’s slain the dragon, humiliated his rival, made some headway in his romantic pursuits, and reaffirmed his place at the university. Present-day Kvothe — Kote— concedes that this doesn’t last. And though Kvothe chose to end Day One well enough — perhaps for the benefit of Chronicler or Bast, but likely to give himself the strength to continue into Day Two, A Wise Man’s Fear — Rothfuss pointedly ends the frame story, and therefore the novel, on a down note.
Unpacking the Last Few Scenes
Kvothe dismisses his companions. We follow the journalist-scribe Chronicler to his own room in the inn. He’s still thinking through the day’s events; in particular, he’s grown more than a little afraid of Bast.
These fears are promptly vindicated by Bast himself, who seriously invades Chronicler’s personal space. Bast reveals he orchestrated Chronicler’s meeting with Kvothe with the hope that this very thing would happen: Kvothe would have a chance to tell his story, reliving his past greatness and in doing so, regain this greatness — or so Bast expects. Bast proceeds to threaten Chronicler, insisting he hurry Kvothe through the darkest parts of the story and avoid asking certain questions, particularly questions about why Kvothe doesn’t play music or do magic anymore.
Here’s how Bast justifies his “request,” in his own words:
“There’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being…everyone always tells a story about themselves inside their head. Always. All the time…we build ourselves out of that story.”
“You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet. But she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in the beholding…and sometimes that’s enough. But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body…and then she’s not seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.”
He goes on to recount how Kvothe saw “Kote the innkeeper” as a disguise at first, but now that mindset is devouring him in a kind of psychic auto-cannibalism: As the people of Newarre came to see him as Kote, so too did Kvothe come to view himself that way. Bast believes Chronicler is the key to curing Kvothe — provided Chronicler plays ball and steers Kvothe away from the dark, ugly truths.
Chronicler resents and rejects Bast’s willingness to curtail the truth to fit the narrative, but is ultimately cowed into submission. (Honestly, it’s hard to blame the guy. In video game terms, Chronicler’s an NPC staring down what might well become a late-campaign boss fight.)
We then move to the last scene of the novel, where a despondent Kvothe falls asleep amid the remains of the memoir he tried — and failed — to write. Rothfuss reintroduces the “silence” image — the last sentence of the epilogue matches the last sentence of the prologue: “It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man waiting to die.”
The presence of the epilogue seems to resist the point Bast makes in the penultimate chapter: We’re left with the sense that Kvothe can’t subsume the truth under story — and, even if he could, it wouldn’t solve much of anything.
What is Greatness?
From Bast’s perspective, “Kvothe” is great and “Kote” is mediocre — maybe even less than that — and that the difference between the two lies in self-image. Which is, itself, based upon his image in the eyes of others.
That last part’s the problematic bit. It’s odd to think of “greatness” — theoretically, the quality that consists the best part of humanity — as being conferred and reneged by public perception. If Kvothe can be undermined so readily by the way he’s seen by other people, then can he be considered truly great?
Also, we’ve been using the word “greatness” somewhat casually until this point, and I won’t pretend I have a definition I’m comfortable with. Is greatness genius? If so, what’s genius — talent? Will any talent do? Do you need to have aptitude in a wide variety of things, as Kvothe does?
But here, it might be fruitful to measure Kvothe against the yardsticks of the philosophers.
Particularly, Ayn Rand. Though I consider her worldview horribly flawed, the lens through which she sees things helps illuminate the challenges ahead of Kvothe, the same way a magnifying glass uncovers new information about an object by producing the illusion of size.
Models of Greatness — the Fountainhead
Love Rand or hate her, it’s hard to deny her sheer influence and preoccupation with human greatness. Related: If you’re one of those readers who finds Kvothe unbelievable, you’re unlikely to enjoy Rand’s works even if you identify with their messages — her heroes cling relentlessly to her ideals while her villains subvert them in every way, an unfortunate tendency which only grows more pronounced as her body of work progresses. For that reason, I’m going to concentrate on her earlier and more lucid work, the Fountainhead. A melodrama which follows the career of a genius architect and the people around him, the Fountainhead uses the four main male characters to embody four ways of being: The one Rand favors, and the three she doesn’t.
Howard Roark is a misunderstood genius whose poor people skills stifle his early-career growth, only for his brilliant work to be vindicated later on. Rand holds him up as a hero because he never compromises his vision for the sake of the public, or his critics, or anyone: His love of his work carries its own reward and he’s all right with the material and personal difficulties this poses him.
Peter Keating’s the opposite, a man who differs from Roark in every way but vocation: A mediocre architect who allowed his overbearing mother to talk him out of pursuing his legitimate talents as a painter, Keating uses his superior people skills to schmooze his way into a comfortable position early on in his career. Problem is, he lacks both the will and the talent to beat back the competition. His career tanks as Roark’s ascends; it’s less that he’s got no intellectual abilities of his own, and more that surrenders them to please other people — his mother, first, but as the narrative unfolds he chronically surrenders his own judgment to just about every other character. He wants to be liked. Or, more precisely, admired.
Interestingly, the images Rand surrounds Keating with resemble those Bast uses to describe his plans for Kvothe: Mirrors and reflections.
“He (Peter) was great, great as the number of people who told him so. He was right; right as the number of people who believed it. He looked at the faces, at the eyes; he saw himself born in them, he saw himself being granted the gift of life. That was Peter Keating, that, the reflection in those staring pupils, and his body was its only reflection.”
Keating’s always looking for the answers to his own identity in other people, but what Bast downplays as a necessary fact of Kvothe’s existence — even Chronicler admits it’s “basic psychology” — Rand writes as a crippling character flaw. Rothfuss — on this subject at least — is probably with Rand. (Elsewhere, less so.)
Finding Kvothe in Rand’s Model
When we combine Roark’s drive and genius with Keating’s “mirroring” tendencies, we get Rand’s third major figure — Gail Wynand. If Roark is the uncontested hero of the text, and Keating his pathetic foil, Wynand is the novel’s tragic figure. In that way, Wynand’s the closest to Kvothe.
Wynand is a ruthless publishing executive, the head of a massive media empire that grew wealthy by pandering to the desires of the masses. While Peter Keating turned his back on his talent, Wynand nourished but misused his. It was in Wynand to be a master journalist. Instead, he chose “power” — here meaning influence over other people. Wynand rationalizes his behavior as a kind of alchemy — he converts people’s base desires into wealth, and uses that wealth to build a beautiful life for himself. His contact with Roark, whose work he admires, leads Wynand to second-guess that view — to the point of leading a media crusade in Roark’s favor when Roark is put on trial for dynamiting a building (long story.)
Ultimately, Wynand’s need to appear great in the eyes of other people damns him. Shortly before the novel’s climactic trial, he abandons his crusade, speaking out against Roark to appease the public. He effectively resigns himself to his status as a mixed character. He’s implied to kill himself shortly afterward, something the film adaptation makes explicit.
Now, Rothfuss hasn’t revealed what exactly brought Kvothe to ruin. (If I were to speculate, I’d say his love interest Denna will become the prime actor here — after Kvothe himself, of course.) What we do know is that Kvothe shares the same personality defect as Wynand: for all his talent, he cares what other people think. And it costs him — literally. His inability to keep his head down and focus on his studies results in monstrous tuitions from the University.
More importantly, his refusal to look weak entraps him in a rivalry with an influential noble, a rivalry which will ultimately see him expelled. This foregone conclusion gets a call-forward early in the novel: The beginning of the University arc has Kvothe ingest a sedative to get through some public corporeal punishment — not because he fears the pain, but because he does not want to be cowed in the eyes of his peers. An unfortunate effect of the sedative is that it makes him stupid; during this dull phase, his rival Ambrose dupes him into carrying an open flame into the University Archive.
Fast forward, and Kvothe gets banned from the Archive, setting him miles back on his overarching goal of researching the monsters who killed his parents. I raise this episode because Kvothe makes a fairly telling remark right afterwards:
“I had traded away my access to the Archives for a little bit of notoriety…(but) if a bit of reputation was all I had to show for the debacle, best build on it.”
Essentially, Kvothe admits he made a bad trade without renouncing his personal desire for glory. He deepens his rivalry with Ambrose, essentially doubling-down on this distraction from his initial primary objective.
The Necessary Components of Greatness
Rand’s Fountainhead gives two requisite components of greatness: 1. Genius — in a particular, specialized area and 2. Integrity — here defined as the ability to stick to your guns and bring forward the vision indicated by your genius, despite the opinions of other people (which Rand always treats as an obstacle.)
Rand’s hero Roark has both. Wynand, only the first. Keating, neither.
Rand, if she were present, would lump Kvothe in with Wynand. This might seem odd, since Wynand is narratively a villain (more or less) and Kvothe, a hero. But this dissonance illuminates the primary flaw with Rand’s definition of man’s highest qualities: greatness does not presuppose goodness.
If her hero Roark improves the world around him, it’s only a happy and indirect consequence of his desire to build. His personal desires always get primacy; even when he loves, he loves only to further his own happiness. Rand’s justification for this: The best things we do always bring us personal joy and satisfaction, and the worst things we do are always in some sense for other people — to inspire their fear or admiration. Hence, Rand villains are almost always sycophants or tyrants. In fairness to Rand, she’s a Soviet emigre well-versed in sycophants and tyrants sanctioning atrocities for an alleged “greater good.”
The problem with Rand’s line of thinking is that it justifies nearly any action on the part of the sufficiently talented. Rand isn’t shy about showcasing this unsavory behavior in Roark, though she always finds ways to rationalize it: Roark dynamites a building because it wasn’t built to his specifications, and his relationship with the novel’s heroine smacks of domestic abuse and even rape (it’d take a whole separate essay to unpack that one.)
And though Kvothe’s need for affirmation might well be destroying him, as Bast indicates, we should hesitate to invite Kvothe to take a page from Roark’s book: Kvothe’s regard for other people inspires some of his finest actions, alongside his worst ones. For example, Kvothe’s dragon-hunt near the end of In the Name of the Wind.
The Model of a Hero
It would seem, then, that the challenge ahead of Kvothe is this: to abandon his love of glory without abandoning his love of man. To become self-determining without becoming self-serving.
And, of course, to address whatever trauma it is that made him into Kote — not something he’s terribly likely to do if Bast steers him from the darkness.
To the readers who find Kvothe’s seeming perfection grating, I say remember this: He’s not Rothfuss’ answer, but his question. Not the ideal hero, but an examination of what makes a man into an ideal — and the horrific psychological consequences that ensue.
