Review: The Name of the Wind

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Oh, The Name of the Wind. Nearly universally praised, my copy came to me via one of my favorite microaggression stories to tell. (Moral of the story: don’t randomly tell people you hated a book because the protagonist was gay—you will run into a queer woman eventually.) With the release of its sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear, in March, the book blogosphere has been overflowing with praise for Patrick Rothfuss. While my copy languished on my shelves for the better part of ten months, I did finally get around it—after I’d built up a substantial buffer, eying its seven hundred plus pages warily. But I needn’t have bothered; I tore through this marvelous piece of work in a handful of days.

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The Sunday Salon: Moving Day

Today, I am moving back to college. Naturally, I’ve been concerned about packing my school things (do my folders match?) to packing my clothes (how exactly does one say military chic while despairing of the heat?), but I’ve also been concerned about my books. This year, I’m taking a course on Jane Austen, and I now own her entire canon, which feels odd, to say the least. I’m also taking a class on Shakespeare and race, which demands several volumes. And let’s not even talk about my textbook for my pre-1700s English literature course. It’s practically a weapon.

But my main concern is, which books should I take for personal reading?

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