“Women are wild animals.”

“Women are wild animals.” Such is the opinion of Kvothe, the unassuming hero in Pat Rothfuss’s book, The Name of the Wind.

He has a point. Not that women are savage, unthinking brutes—-except for a few, though their savagery is not rooted in their womanliness—-but women, like wild animals, must only be approached carefully, cautiously. Taming one is unspeakably dangerous and should only be attempted by the very brave or the very foolish. More than one man has had his still-beating heart plucked from his chest because he moved too quickly or too coarsely and startled his woman to flight. These men do not die, you see; it is worse than that: they continue living, but heartless.

And so Kvothe, our intrepid hero, suggested a more subtle strategy: Approach a woman in slow circles. Instead of rushing in with greedy, grasping hands which crush and bruise, the clumsy hands of an impetuous boy whose brain is addled by the intoxicating nectar of false love, rather, pause. Watch her. Listen. Then take a quiet step forward. Observe her as she watches you, and taste her scent on the wind. This is no stealth or cunning, the machinations of a hunter’s mind. This is the dance of a man courting a woman with the reverence she deserves as a creature of beauty and as more than a creature of beauty.

Here, many men overflow with rage and passion, rushing in to snatch the woman. Consumed by their lust to own a beautiful thing, they succeed only in emotionally bludgeoning the woman to death. Some men have tried nets, snares, arrows, and expensive bait to capture a woman, believing that if they lure her in and tie her down that they might break her wild nature. But there are no domesticated women. Like the summer breeze, she must choose to stay of her own accord, or she will not stay at all. You may trap her, take her body captive, but her spirit will fly, and you will be left holding nothing but a shell.

No, the only way to keep a woman is if she chooses to trust you. And trust is built in slow circles.

I encountered a woman once, as wild as the winter stars. Her golden mane flowed over soft, feathered arms, and her eyes glowed with the evening light. We met where the pathways cross under hills of stone and a meadow brook. I stood transfixed by her gaze, my heart racing. My breath escaped in the smallest possible puffs of white, afraid that even breathing too loudly might startle her. But she stood serene. I took a bold step forward. And she didn’t run. I began to speak in the softest tones, letting a steady stream of words—-forgotten words—-fill the air and draw us in. And she stepped closer. Filled with courage and confidence, I reached out to her. And then she was gone, running through the trees. There I stood, watching her leap away through the pink hills, the scent of cinnamon and winter wafting in the wind, acutely aware of my own humanities.

A woman is a wild animal, tamed only by the very, very brave or the very, very foolish .