'Too many people think speed is the hallmark of a good musician. It's understandable. But how quickly you can finger notes is the smallest part of music. The real key is timing.

This is why there are so few true musicians. Knowing the notes isn't enough. You have to know how to play them. Speed comes with time and practice, but timing you are born with it. You have it or you don't.

Denna had it. She moved slowly through the song, but she wasn't plodding. She played it slow like a luxurious kiss. As she stood with her arms around the harp, her eyes half-lidded with concentration, I knew I someday wanted to be kissed with that amount of slow, deliberate care.

And she was beautiful. I suppose it should come as no surprise that I have a particular fondness for women with music running through them. But as she played I saw her for the first time that day. Before I had been distracted by the difference in her hair, the cut of her dress. But as she played, all that faded from view.'

L'homme de ma vie est en papier, il est fait de mots, et à part le lire encore et encore, rien ne se passe. Je ris, je tremblote, je pleure en le lisant - heureusement j'en ai encore pour plus de 1000 pages. L'énorme citation qui précède ne dit pas autre chose : j'aurais envie de tout dire, de tout crier pour faire comprendre aux gens qui m'entourent l'importance de ces mots-là. Ce n'est pas possible, donc procurez-vous

The Name of the Wind puis The Wise Man's Fear, de toute urgence.

"You're my safe harbor in an endless, stormy sea. You are my shady willow on a sunny day."

"You, I said, are sweet music in a distant room."

"You are unexpected cake on a rainy afternoon."

J'ai bien conscience qu'on ne peut décemment pas être amoureuse d'un héros de roman. Peut-être qu'un jour arrivera un musicien roux aux yeux verts, un tueur de roi, un voleur, un guerrier. Peut-être même qu'il ne sera pas déjà amoureux fou d'une autre. On ne sait jamais.

En attendant, je lis.

Kvothe