An epic effort, forged in irony

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I sweat with shame when I think back to the daft one-upmanship at university that led me to spend each week reading a pile of books I didn’t fully understand, just to be able to casually flick a reference to Proust.

These days, as a college teacher whose brain has mostly turned to porridge, I’m ready to admit that the novel I’m struggling with now is the children’s saga The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.

I’ve just made it past the halfway point and it appears that the driving force of the narrative is to gain access to the university library. If you’ll excuse the tired parlance, he’s ...

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