Friday, 8 January 2010 03:11 pm
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deckardcanineTwo days ago, I finished Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. You may recall me mentioning it in early November. Not too bad when you consider that it’s 402 pages and I do most of my book reading on my post-workday three-stop subway route.
Early on, we see Brooklynite Quentin Coldwater invited to a secret, somewhat old-fashioned school of magic. You can guess what other story almost every reader brings up when they talk about TM, including half the cited writers on the cover. There are even a few offhand references within the story.
So how is TM distinct aside from being set in America? Well, to start with, Brakebills is a college. When you think about it, it makes sense not to teach spells to kids who can’t even drive yet. And we have a better idea of what makes these spells more difficult than simply waving a wand and speaking pseudo-Latin: You have to learn multiple real languages and move your hands in very precise ways. Seasoned magicians have thick fingers from all the strain. The students also engage in a fair amount of swearing and sex (no, it does not read like a fanfic).
Then there’s the fact that Quentin doesn’t especially stand out from the rest of the school, except that he never specializes in a discipline, the selection of which is borderline pointless aside from organizing the cliques. I could easily picture the story being retold with one of several other characters at the focus. They’re all about equally developed, interesting, and unpredictable. Kinda like the magic itself.
Quentin frequently reflects on a literary series that doesn’t exist in real life, tho the suddenly present-tense narration may throw you off on that score: the Fillory series by Christopher Plover. Anyone remotely acquainted with Narnia will recognize the lawyer-friendly parallels, and anyone remotely acquainted with storytelling in general will not consider it a spoiler if I tell you that Fillory turns out to be real within the universe of TM (not everything is unpredictable). Plover’s telling is just partially altered and incomplete.
As you may have surmised, this is largely about introducing some realism to the subgenre, and like many deconstructions, it’s not all that pretty. I’d almost call it the Watchmen of children’s fantasy, but mercifully it’s not that dismal. Quentin is never happy for long, and it’s hard to say how much to blame his attitude in general. The book could be summarized thus:
Part 1: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! You get to do real magic! But expect the learning to be painful and tedious, especially in your fourth of five years. Also, basically everyone here is a Type A erstwhile semi-outcast like you, so healthy social skills are in short supply, including among the profs. You’ll find friends and a girlfriend eventually, but these relationships won’t be without serious problems.
Part 2: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! No more school, and your graduation presents are generous! The world is your oyster; you can do pretty much whatever you want! …Good luck figuring out what that is. Or what you’ll do while you’re still figuring it out. Most likely you’ll live la vita dolce and try not to notice the lack of real dolce.
Part 3: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! You get to go to a high fantasy world and even have the chance to become one of its kings! But not all the cute creatures are on your side, and you won’t feel good fighting. The heroes of your favorite story, and the author himself, have not been as pure as you thought.
Part 4: You know what, forget dreams. Magic is a drug; one dose screws you up, and then you screw yourself up more to feel less screwed up for a while. Even the stupid dean suspected that humans were never meant to touch it, just as they were never meant to understand it without breaking themselves in the process. You’re better off living a normal, if privileged, life and killing your desires. If you can.
Actually, I’m not so sure that that’s the take-home message. The narration never strays from Quentin’s mind; it might as well be in the first person, though that’s untraditional in fantasy. He’s still young and fickle, so why should we assume he’s found the ultimate wisdom? The ending doesn’t even feel final; it’s the start of a new, probably equally interesting phase in Quentin’s life.
Might I add that Quentin’s mind is a pretty academic place to be, since he was an A student before Brakebills. My mom gave me a bookmark with space to write down words to look up later. She probably needed that more than I did (I knew “gramarye” already), but I just filled it up by the end. I have to wonder what kind of editor saw fit to pull a Lemony Snicket and tell us what a vixen was, especially with the contextual clues.
Unfortunately, Quentin’s apparent thought grammar does not match his thought vocabulary. I winced at a number of phrasings. There were some errors that I’m sure were not intentional, like a repetition of the word “the.” But it must be hard enough for proofreaders amid all the informal spoken language, not to mention the occasional fantasy terms that no spellchecker would pass by default.
Furthermore, while the book itself is never boring, Quentin’s acquired disinterest in various magical things can be frustrating. Sometimes I’ll want more details on something and am left to assume that Grossman didn’t bother fleshing them out. I was happy to see Quentin morph more than a certain other focal wizard ever did, but once the school year is over (long to him but breezing by the readers), he never bothers again. More troubling is the fact that we never see many disciplines spelled out. How can the Physical Kids be the smallest group when it’s hard to imagine what doesn’t qualify as physical magic? Ironic that “natural magic” is counted separately when you consider the etymology of “physical.” Eh, at least Grossman has a better excuse than Philip K. Dick for appearing to lose interest in a world of his own creation: the better to reinforce the notion that familiarity with magic breeds contempt.
Some fantasies (by which I include sci-fi) exist for pleasant escapism. Others reassure us that this is no worse a world than that one would be. I guess the world needs both, and TM isn’t a bad example of the latter. Now to see if this 2009 publication can stand the test of time. “Wizard needs food badly” was good for a rare attempt at humor, but how much longer will people remember catchphrases from Gauntlet?
Early on, we see Brooklynite Quentin Coldwater invited to a secret, somewhat old-fashioned school of magic. You can guess what other story almost every reader brings up when they talk about TM, including half the cited writers on the cover. There are even a few offhand references within the story.
So how is TM distinct aside from being set in America? Well, to start with, Brakebills is a college. When you think about it, it makes sense not to teach spells to kids who can’t even drive yet. And we have a better idea of what makes these spells more difficult than simply waving a wand and speaking pseudo-Latin: You have to learn multiple real languages and move your hands in very precise ways. Seasoned magicians have thick fingers from all the strain. The students also engage in a fair amount of swearing and sex (no, it does not read like a fanfic).
Then there’s the fact that Quentin doesn’t especially stand out from the rest of the school, except that he never specializes in a discipline, the selection of which is borderline pointless aside from organizing the cliques. I could easily picture the story being retold with one of several other characters at the focus. They’re all about equally developed, interesting, and unpredictable. Kinda like the magic itself.
Quentin frequently reflects on a literary series that doesn’t exist in real life, tho the suddenly present-tense narration may throw you off on that score: the Fillory series by Christopher Plover. Anyone remotely acquainted with Narnia will recognize the lawyer-friendly parallels, and anyone remotely acquainted with storytelling in general will not consider it a spoiler if I tell you that Fillory turns out to be real within the universe of TM (not everything is unpredictable). Plover’s telling is just partially altered and incomplete.
As you may have surmised, this is largely about introducing some realism to the subgenre, and like many deconstructions, it’s not all that pretty. I’d almost call it the Watchmen of children’s fantasy, but mercifully it’s not that dismal. Quentin is never happy for long, and it’s hard to say how much to blame his attitude in general. The book could be summarized thus:
Part 1: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! You get to do real magic! But expect the learning to be painful and tedious, especially in your fourth of five years. Also, basically everyone here is a Type A erstwhile semi-outcast like you, so healthy social skills are in short supply, including among the profs. You’ll find friends and a girlfriend eventually, but these relationships won’t be without serious problems.
Part 2: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! No more school, and your graduation presents are generous! The world is your oyster; you can do pretty much whatever you want! …Good luck figuring out what that is. Or what you’ll do while you’re still figuring it out. Most likely you’ll live la vita dolce and try not to notice the lack of real dolce.
Part 3: Congratulations, your boyhood dream has come true! You get to go to a high fantasy world and even have the chance to become one of its kings! But not all the cute creatures are on your side, and you won’t feel good fighting. The heroes of your favorite story, and the author himself, have not been as pure as you thought.
Part 4: You know what, forget dreams. Magic is a drug; one dose screws you up, and then you screw yourself up more to feel less screwed up for a while. Even the stupid dean suspected that humans were never meant to touch it, just as they were never meant to understand it without breaking themselves in the process. You’re better off living a normal, if privileged, life and killing your desires. If you can.
Actually, I’m not so sure that that’s the take-home message. The narration never strays from Quentin’s mind; it might as well be in the first person, though that’s untraditional in fantasy. He’s still young and fickle, so why should we assume he’s found the ultimate wisdom? The ending doesn’t even feel final; it’s the start of a new, probably equally interesting phase in Quentin’s life.
Might I add that Quentin’s mind is a pretty academic place to be, since he was an A student before Brakebills. My mom gave me a bookmark with space to write down words to look up later. She probably needed that more than I did (I knew “gramarye” already), but I just filled it up by the end. I have to wonder what kind of editor saw fit to pull a Lemony Snicket and tell us what a vixen was, especially with the contextual clues.
Unfortunately, Quentin’s apparent thought grammar does not match his thought vocabulary. I winced at a number of phrasings. There were some errors that I’m sure were not intentional, like a repetition of the word “the.” But it must be hard enough for proofreaders amid all the informal spoken language, not to mention the occasional fantasy terms that no spellchecker would pass by default.
Furthermore, while the book itself is never boring, Quentin’s acquired disinterest in various magical things can be frustrating. Sometimes I’ll want more details on something and am left to assume that Grossman didn’t bother fleshing them out. I was happy to see Quentin morph more than a certain other focal wizard ever did, but once the school year is over (long to him but breezing by the readers), he never bothers again. More troubling is the fact that we never see many disciplines spelled out. How can the Physical Kids be the smallest group when it’s hard to imagine what doesn’t qualify as physical magic? Ironic that “natural magic” is counted separately when you consider the etymology of “physical.” Eh, at least Grossman has a better excuse than Philip K. Dick for appearing to lose interest in a world of his own creation: the better to reinforce the notion that familiarity with magic breeds contempt.
Some fantasies (by which I include sci-fi) exist for pleasant escapism. Others reassure us that this is no worse a world than that one would be. I guess the world needs both, and TM isn’t a bad example of the latter. Now to see if this 2009 publication can stand the test of time. “Wizard needs food badly” was good for a rare attempt at humor, but how much longer will people remember catchphrases from Gauntlet?
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Gauntlet
There's a Gauntlet segment in one of the Playstation 2 Simpson games.