MOVE OVER, JABBERWOCKY AND ALICE IN WONDERLAND.

Now we have Auri and the whimsical, lyrical prose of Patrick Rothfuss’ The Slow Regard of Silent Things. Here is a taste:

In the ancient passageways deep inside the earth, there are whispers of dim light.

Something vital up above was all alack, Auri thought, and the waiting grit on her.

The air was thick and shuddersome. The walls were full of spite. The stones begrudged her every step. All everything was snarling allapart.

The atmosphere in the underground changed from day to day. Burning days were flickersome. Too frangible by half. Other days were trumpet-proud. They heralded like thunder.

And how does Auri pass the time?

She sweeps the floor of her room, swingling wildly about, making the shadows spin and skirl.

She makes a smooth, curved dome of pale, sweet soap. It felt wicked and delicious. It was the color of fresh cream with just a single drop of blood.

She makes a sorrel colored candle pressed with lavender. It smelled of bay and bees. It was a perfect thing.

Auri’s mood is changeable. Sometimes her heart is stiff, at other times she had no crying left. She was full of broken glass and burrs. Then again, she felt dry as paper written on both sides.

Readers expect certain things, Rothfuss says about his book. They are going to read this and be disappointed. It doesn’t do what a normal story is supposed to do.

Right. But some people like paranormal.