The Power of Words and Knowledge in ‘The Name of the Wind’

The Name of the Wind tells the story of Kvothe (pronounced '“quothe”), a legendary figure recounting his life of magic, tragedy, and pursuit of knowledge, from gifted child to infamous myth. We meet him first as an unassuming innkeeper, but are quickly informed by the regular townsfolk about the legendary Kvothe, who has ascended into mythology—Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Kingkiller. Upon realizing who the innkeeper truly is, the Chronicler entices him to share his story, and off we go, listening to Kvothe’s retelling of tragedy, suffering, and survival.

Themes of survival and grief are strong, as are motifs of naming, the power of the narrator, and the hunger for knowledge. This essay will explore each of these briefly and will connect these themes to broader truths described in the biblical story. The Name of the Wind is not only a wonderful story, but it also offers great food for thought about how we tell stories, what names we use, and what kind of knowledge we are searching for.

The Power of the Narrator

There are two kinds of readers—those who are swept along with the story and don’t spare a second thought for how the story is told, and those who are conscious of who is telling the story and the minute details that shape the story to tell it just so.

For the vibey reader, this story tugs on their heartstrings as Kvothe suffers tremendous loss at a young age, which causes him to struggle for survival and pursue answers to his trauma-driven questions.

For the astute reader, they will realize that Kvothe has the power to tell the story in a way that serves his purposes, which aren’t yet clear by the end of the book. There are moments where he begins telling a portion of his story and then backtracks, deciding to take a different tack. Interestingly, though the story is about Kvothe as a child and young teenager, the tone of the book is decidedly adult. It reads as if it is an adult telling others about his childhood.

For example, some of his decisions are questionable, but they made logical and emotional sense at the time, so the reader finds themselves justifying Kvothe’s actions. Kvothe describes himself as a brilliant child, picking up new ideas and concepts instantly as he is tutored by his mentor. There is a hint of arrogance, but his brilliance is supported by third-party observers of Kvothe’s genius. He is young and reckless, though the reader never despises him for it… at least, I didn’t.

All of this causes me to reflect on the nature of how we tell stories. When I read about the magnificent deeds of the mighty Kvothe as told by the villagers, I’m awed. Then, Kvothe tells his story, and it is told to us that most of his ‘mighty deeds’ are a consequence of his recklessness or drive to survive as a young orphan. I realized that the truth depends on the perspective of the storyteller.

The Bible is a book told from many perspectives. What makes the Bible so unique is that it is consistent in its main story and theme despite the uniqueness of its authors. The biblical authors lived in various locations (Egypt, Canaan, Israel, Babylon, and Rome) through many different eras, including the Bronze Age, Iron Age, and Classical Antiquity during which the Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, and Romans all vied for power in the Middle East and Mediterranean.

As a kid, I thought everything in the Bible simply happened “in the Bible times.” Ha. The ‘Bible times’ are far more diverse than we realize. It’s like saying that everyone living in Ancient Rome and in postmodern Canada lived and thought the same way despite the separation of time and geography. That’s absurd.

Christian scholars fall into different camps regarding the inspiration and authorship of Scripture. The three main views are:

• Verbal dictation theory: Evangelical and conservative Protestants tend to hold a literal, verbal inspiration of scripture in which God verbally told his authors exactly what to write, and they wrote it down.

• Dynamic inspiration: Moderate Protestants and Wesleyans maintain that God inspired the general ideas of the Bible, but human authors used their own style and language to express this.

• Inspiration through tradition: Catholics and Orthodox beliefs hold to the inspiration of Scripture as preserved through the Church’s tradition. Thus, interpretation is dependent on the life of the Church.

The Chronicler in The Name of the Wind behaves within verbal dictation. He writes exactly what Kvothe tells him. The story that emerges is quite different than the prevailing folklore. Thus, we see that the narrator chooses how to tell the story.

Regardless of the view of Scriptural inspiration that you hold, the point is clear—the narrator has the power to tell the story as he wishes. In Scripture, the narrator is God (2 Tim. 3:16), but also strangely involves the narrative efforts of humans. Fascinatingly, the biblical authors align in their perspectives about God. That is, they tell one cohesive story about God.

Sure, there are some differences in how to view suffering and theodicy (compare Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes), and some authors focus more on certain aspects of God’s character than others (compare the prophecies to the gospels), but there is cohesiveness. Each author tells a small portion of the story from the time and place where they live, resulting in a picture of a God who interacts with his people across time and space.

Some people ask why God doesn’t speak to us anymore (referring to the explosion of prophetic messages in the exilic and post-exilic period or the gifts of the Spirit in the early church). To them, I say, God has spoken to us through his Scriptures (though I’m by no means a cessationist, that is, I don’t believe that the gifts of the Spirit stopped after Acts). The Scriptures are a powerful way in which he has chosen to reveal himself to us, so we’d better pay attention.

When the narrator speaks, let’s listen.

Names and the Power of Words

Kvothe uncovers the name of the wind, a powerful, magic-sourced word that results in a dramatic near-tragedy. On the opposite side of the spectrum, the woman Denna, whom Kvothe falls in love with, is never known by the same name twice. Kvothe doesn’t know her true name. She keeps it hidden and changes it frequently to protect herself in a dangerous world.

On one hand, a force of nature is named. On the other, a human avoids being named.

The Bible is full of people being named: Abram is named Abraham (Gen. 17:5), Jacob is named Israel (Gen. 32:28); stones and places are named (Jacob names the stone that he used as a pillow ‘Bethel’, see Gen. 28:18-19); some people are nameless, like the Israelite girl who told her master, Naaman, about Elijah (2 Kings 5:2-3), or the leper who returned to worship Jesus (Lk. 17:15). One of the most startling instances of naming in Scripture is the story of Lazarus and the rich man (Lk. 16:19-31). The beggar is named, while the rich man is nameless in a complete reversal of the Jewish societal expectations.

Naming is a spiritual act. It speaks to an identity. I know someone who changed their name after a significant traumatic and spiritual event. Their identity had entirely changed as a result, and they no longer felt like their old name was true. A new name was needed.

We don’t consider names very important in the Western world. We name our children after celebrities, flowers, or brands (North West, anyone?). We hyphenate our names or choose to take one name over the other when we get married, or perhaps we create an entirely new name that steps outside of our family lineage. We name people groups and places based on the characteristics that we see or value.

What would happen if we took time to consider how and why we are naming other people, places, and objects as we do? Words hold power. When we name a people group by a derogatory name, we belittle them, pour contempt on them, and declare an identity of ‘You don’t matter’ over them.

What if we used our words to name truth in others instead? What if we built others up by the words that we speak to them?

The Hunger for Knowledge

Kvothe is desperate for knowledge. He longs to know what happened to his family and the reasons for their demise. In all his youthful enthusiasm, he breaks several rules in an attempt at knowledge and finds himself barred from the Archives instead. His pursuit of knowledge is marked by his pride.

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,
    and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding. (Prov. 9:10)

The Bible is full of knowledge. It is also full of wisdom. Wisdom and knowledge aren’t the same thing. As Kvothe continues to search for knowledge, wisdom escapes him. He ends up in trouble time and again, fueling a feud with a fellow student because of his short-sighted desire for knowledge.

“It's the questions we can't answer that teach us the most.”

Wisdom requires time and experience. It is slow and patient. It is not forced by knowledge. Histories, folklore, and religion all aim to tell truth about who we are and where we are going. They tell us a collective wisdom from years of experience and tradition. God, as the Source of all wisdom, is where truth and wisdom are synthesized into a whole—this is embodied in Jesus, who is the God who walked the earth.

The story ends unfinished, having only told the ‘first day’ of Kvothe’s tale as told to the Chronicler. The reader is left with a sense of foreboding; something ill has befallen Kvothe since his university days, but the reader does not yet know what happened. What experiences has he had that have changed him from a reckless teenager to a worn and weary innkeeper?

Conclusion

For the Christian reader, we are left with questions about how we interpret stories—do we do so alone or with others? Communal interpretation is the bottom line for believers; we have to do it with other people, or we will miss the nuances of how the story interacts with others.

Not only does this book challenge how we approach the authority of the Bible (and stories in general), but it also challenges how we use our words in something as seemingly simple as naming others. Our words carry truth. In the words of Paul,

No foul language should come from your mouth, but only what is good for building up someone in need, so that it gives grace to those who hear. (Eph. 4:29)

And then, the pursuit of knowledge. Are we pursuing the wisdom of the world or the foolishness of Christ (1 Cor. 1:18)? Are we hungering for knowledge for self-accreditation, or are we hungering for righteousness (Matt. 5:6)?

The Name of the Wind is an example of excellent fantasy. It has everything that good fantasy ought to have—travel, quests, magic, lore, and folktales. Rothfuss’s writing style is lyrical and reflective. It’s slow and immersive. Don’t expect to find all the answers you are looking for in this book; they’re not there. It’s about the journey and the slow seeking of wisdom, and it is beautiful. The best stories cause readers to ask more questions, and The Name of the Wind absolutely succeeds in this.

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