The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss is a thick fantasy novel with a world map on the first page. It is the author’s first novel, and part one of a yet unpublished trilogy. I ought to hate it. So why do I have the sense that the landscape of fantasy fiction just shifted to make room for a new master? Rothfuss seems to walk into the most overfarmed part of the field with the intention, not to imitate, but to show everyone how to do it right. Out with apocalyptic battles between Good and Evil, out out out with endless braidtugging and plot coupon-chasing Chosen Ones. Tone it all down, down to the most powerful magical incantation of them all: “Once upon a time ..” Now, there’s a man, and there’s a world, and this is the story of his life in that world. It’s as simple as that. I could complain about Kvothe’s unbelievable awesomeness and more, but the fact is that The Name of the Wind brings back memories from when I first read fantasy, of dreams of setting out on the road in a remote world. It feels like home. It feels like sitting by the feet of a storyteller. Thank you, Patrick. I hereby join the hordes of newly converted Rothfussites, waiting with stupid grins for the next two books.