Imagine you are one of the foremost makers of lasagna in the entire world.

You spent an anonymous decade making the same lasagna over and over again, obsessively perfecting your craft. When you make a lasagna, there can be no doubt it is the result of years of passion, perspiration and perseverance. Your lasagna captures, in its meaty deliciousness and cheese-tastic wonder, the very thumbprint of God.

You are as close to a prophet of lasagna as a human being can ever come. You have created a lasagna so perfect, your face and name are synonymous with lasagna. You cannot even make lasagna as fast as the world wants to devour it. There are websites and people who spend a significant portion of their lives dreaming about what your next lasagna will be like.

Stretch your imagination a bit further.


… that one day you make a pretzel.

The urge just came to you while you were making some lasagna noodles. You felt the dough in your hand and dared dream a different dream. Suddenly, there was a pretzel inside of you waiting to be made.

And you make that pretzel.

It seems to spring out of you, from nowhere.

Then, much more quickly than you could have ever made a lasagna, it is done.

The pretzel is there in front of you.

You step back and behold what you have created. The loops and saltiness and crispness and other pretzel attributes are… in a word? Perfect.

But you are the prophet of lasagna.

Lasagna prophets do not make pretzels.

Of course not.

Except this pretzel? THIS pretzel BEGS to be eaten.

This pretzel wantonly cries to be swallowed by the whole world.

This pretzel cannot be denied.

And… perhaps some people who like lasagna might also like pretzels?

You carefully declare that despite your reputation for making lasagna, you have decided to make a pretzel. You insert in the very packaging of this pretzel a specific warning that it is not lasagna. You understand not all people who like lasagna like pretzels. There is no judgement in you against them.

You release this pretzel.

People eat this pretzel.

Some, have read the packaging and understood it is a pretzel and find it delicious. They appreciate its pretzeliness. Others find they do not care for this specific pretzel and that is fine. It would, in fact, be worrisome if everyone loved it for then some of them would have to be pretending and you’d have cause to doubt your craft.

Others, declare this pretzel is the worst lasagna they’ve ever had. Which is true, because pretzels are not lasagna. But also stupid, for the same reason.


The Slow Regard of Silent Things” by Patrick Rothfuss was written for me.

It’s my favorite story that I’ve read in quite a while and I’ve gone through it three times now. I find I have acquired a love for the word “Incarnadine” and murmur it to myself as a way of relieving stress. I found the story to be perfect from beginning to end.

I’m almost offended by how much perfection I found. It felt like someone had been spying on me in my most private and intimate moments and then put all of it together into a book without my permission. I don’t often read a book and find myself nodding “exactly” as I flip the pages.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things” is the story of a mentally ill (it’s more complicated than that, but that description will work for now) girl who wants to find a present for her friend before their next meeting. There is no dialogue. There are no other characters, per se. She spends most of the story walking around in the dark anthropomorphizing garbage.

That’s not what it is about, but that’s what happens.

I’m not trying to trick you with that summary. That’s pretty much the story. She makes soap for a significant sum of pages and she has to remove some negative emotion that is living inside of the soap. Another time, she breaks a gear and experiences euphoria to find that breaking it apart has made it perfect. Those are the most classically “exciting” things that happen.

You know those “nonsense” paintings where you look at them and think “I could have done that, what utter bullshit.” Sometimes, a lot more than people admit to, I think it really is utter bullshit. That’s because art is hard and it requires a lot of work and not everyone puts in all that work. So stuff gets passed along that doesn’t really mean anything, but appears to mean something, and then people to get to have lots of existential arguments about what the difference is between meaning something and seeming to mean something.

But sometimes, also more than people admit, that kind of “nonsense” art is not bullshit at all. Sometimes it’s just that perfection looked different than you thought it would. My definition of art is when someone reaches out the with their soul through paint, or words or whatever, and grabs hold of someone else’s soul and says “you’re not alone and the world is full of thoughts you’ve never had before.”

That’s a journey and it takes significant amounts of context.

Before I can appreciate “modern Art” I have to go back and see the artist’s entire journey for context. It’s a lot of work and it takes time and even then it might not be that exciting. But when you see a soul unfolding across canvas or stone or a story, I think that’s as close as you can ever get to knowing for sure that you’re not alone in the universe and that everyone’s mind is as bright and important and powerful as your own. Good art shows you the promise that the whole universe is full of near infinite and unique wonders.

Here’s why I loved “The Slow Regard of Silent Things.”

It’s a story about appreciating journeys and about helping journeys along. It’s also a story about what it’s like to make things and create stories. It’s a story for a certain kind of artist. Not all artists, and not “the best” artists although I’m sure many of the “best” artists will love the story for the same reasons I do. Many of “the best” artists might hate it for valid reasons, but the fact remains that for many artists it’s an exact metaphor for what it’s like to deal with things that aren’t real, but which have or at least seem to have enormous consequences.

Auri, the sole character of the story, arranges garbage down in the dark. She does this because she’s trying to make the world perfect. She does this in the same way that through some impossible power that shouldn’t be real, but is, a writer or a painter or a sculptor can move a bunch of dead matter around in front of you and speak with exactness to a part of you that you were not even previously aware existed. Auri does these bizarre things, like almost drowning to retrieve a broken gear wheel, to follow her moral code and to love the world and to speak with love to the people she cares about. Her insanity, on the inside, is rational and strict and moral. Auri struggles the same way every creator who has ever created struggles with esoteric inconsequential disasters to make something which says only what it is meant to say and nothing else and be, by some invisible standard, “complete.”

Can you taste a poem? You can’t. What would you taste it with? Except you taste a poem every time you read or write or recite one. This story is about choosing the flavors of words, and the characters of colors and the souls of rocks. It’s about what it’s like before you’re done making something, when you have to spend a whole day crying in despair because nothing seems to come out quite right.

I empathize with Auri. I am, by most definitions, a recluse. I go to work. I go to therapy. I come home to an improbable number of cats. That is my life. Seeing another human being on personal terms is a rare and luxurious occurrence. But I also struggle to make things. Not always good things. Not always things people like. Not always even things that I like. But things. I make them as well as I can. I could no more not make something as well as I could than I could walk by a child screaming for help.

One time I organized all of my books by how well I thought their characters would get along. It took me five or six hours. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. Just wasn’t able to stop. Things aren’t usually that bad, but they can be. Auri would know what I mean.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things” was written for me.

I loved it.

Maybe it wasn’t written for you, but if you hate it, I ask only that you hate it for being a poor pretzel and not for being bad lasagna.

Categories: Uncategorized


. · November 8, 2014 at 11:35 pm

I am strangely hungry.

AA Peterson · November 9, 2014 at 12:28 am

I tried to get a friend of mine to make a lasagna that looks like his face but she wouldn’t do it. I don’t know how I would get the shape right or I would. I think the beard part would be pretty meaty.

michaelhtritter · November 9, 2014 at 1:03 am

So, I came here through a link on Pat Rothfuss’s page. I was surprised, and entranced, and enlightened by this review, much as I find myself by Patrick’s work. I found myself experiencing what you describe as that elusive connection, not even so much with another singular entity, but with some greater unity across all beings, and I felt it with what you describe about SLOW REGARD, and also due to your description itself.

I haven’t read SRoST because I love his lasagna so much. I wasn’t ready for a pretzel; but now I think I might be.

AA Peterson · November 9, 2014 at 1:30 am

Well, I appreciate that. That’s very kind of you to say. Glad to make your e-quaintance.

I very much loved the story and I very much recommend everyone who has read the first two books to read it (I also recommend the first two books to anyone skimming. Start with “The Name of the Wind.”). It was one of those things where I read it and thought “Well, this is perfectly what it is, and it’s a story about things perfectly what they are.” And I have a touch of OCD as I mentioned in the post, so I felt a very strong connection with Auri.

I wanted to be careful not to dismiss people who might not like it because that’s something I think of as “It Getting” (When people praise themselves for “getting it” and put down people for “not getting it.) and I know it’s not for everyone and no one should feel badly if they didn’t like it.

I’d keep in mind the following and I think it would make it more accessible and enjoyable. I may be totally wrong, but it worked for me:

I imagine Auri’s story is a lot like what Pat’s process is like when he writes. I always like to see other people’s creative processes. When I write stuff I just have to find it and define it enough so I can “grab it” and then “push it out” whereas I think he really HAS to “make things perfect.” So that’s how I read it and that made it really interesting for me.

apprenticenevermaster · November 9, 2014 at 3:11 am

I also arrived here from Pat’s blog, and am so glad that he gave us the link.

You write wonderfully, and I think I enjoyed reading this review as much as I enjoy reading most books.

Candy · November 9, 2014 at 4:30 am

This review was wonderful, it was a perfect way to describe how reading this book felt. I think there will be some people who do not like it, for the reasons you mention, but there will be plenty more out there (myself definitely one of them) who love it for the twisty pretzel it is.

Shannon Haddock · November 9, 2014 at 4:49 am

I also came here from Pat’s blog, and this was beautiful, and the best description of the book I’ve read.

King Sheep · November 9, 2014 at 3:21 pm

It there’s a contest somewhere for determining the “best book review of the year” your piece should win.

Sergey Antopolsky · November 9, 2014 at 5:58 pm

This is a very good review, I really enjoyed reading it. You eatly put into words what I feel about the book, but unable to express. Thank you.

AA Peterson · November 10, 2014 at 1:16 pm


🙂 Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.


I don’t know what to say to most of these, so *high five*

@Shannon Haddock

*high five*

@King Sheep

That might be a bit much, but thank you and also *high five*

@Sergey Antopolsky

Your name is a delight to pronounce. I murmured it for like a solid minute. Really hitting the “p” made it all come together. *high five*

Bart · November 11, 2014 at 4:56 pm

When it comes to lasagna, I am a glutton; I devour the whole pan in one night, not leaving any leftovers for the following week. Sometimes the taste of the lasagna is such that I have to call in sick to work in order to contemplate the complexity of flavors for some time after.

The same is not true about the pretzel. For weeks this pretzel has sat on my nightstand, unfinished. Every few nights I will take a bite or two and think about the saltiness and the shape. It is pleasant enough but I have yet to experience the same hunger I have for lasagna. I fear I may one day forget about the pretzel and leave it, stale and uneaten.

AA Peterson · November 12, 2014 at 1:27 am


🙂 I am glad you like lasagna. And I celebrate that you are honest and that we all different and can like different things and it’s okay. No worries on the pretzel. I’m sure there will be other feasts along the way.

Anna W · January 11, 2015 at 9:03 pm

I know I’m late to the party but this review was pretty awesome. I have the opposite feelings of many readers. My husband tried the lasagna and loved it. Devoured both panfulls and can’t wait for a third. He told me about the awesomeness of the lasagna. I generally like lasagna so I gave it a try. It was good, I’ll grant you that, an excellently crafted lasagna. However perhaps a bit more garlic then I prefer. The pretzel on the other hand was amazing. I’ve never had anything remotely like it. I finished it in about three bites and wished there were more.

AA Peterson · January 15, 2015 at 7:21 pm

I’m glad you enjoyed the review 🙂

I hope Pat’s inspired to do more side projects in between longer works.

Slow Regard of Silent Things: Recapping the Tour · November 8, 2014 at 9:20 pm

[…] they were expecting something else. There’s a delightful blog about the book called: “This Pretzel is the Worst Lasagna Ever” where they discuss the problem of reader expectation in a wonderfully ridiculous way. […]

[Reblog] THIS PRETZEL IS THE WORST LASAGNA EVER | Jaye Em Edgecliff · November 9, 2014 at 6:13 pm


My Book is 20 Percent Cursed - AA Peterson · October 21, 2017 at 11:23 am

[…] I wrote that Pretzel-Lasagna review that went viral the next day I actually made a lasagna. Then I accidentally left it on an oven burner and because […]

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