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A review by lauraborkpower
The Magicians by Lev Grossman
Did not finish book.
I have been "reading" this book for about a month, and I put "reading" in quotes because I can barely get through a few pages at a time before I get anxious and angry and toss it back down on the table. I have decided, finally, to give this one up. And here's why.
It's not good.
I tried--really hard--to like it. I wanted to like it. During my sporadic reading of the first one hundred awful pages, I continually flipped to the back cover to scan the great blurbs from Junot Diaz (who I think really is a talented writer!), The New Yorker, The Chicago Tribune, and more. I kept saying to myself, "Self, you must be wrong; keep reading and you'll get to the good stuff." But the good stuff never came.
Now, Grossman can write some really nice prose. He's got some lovely metaphors and interesting imagery. But he simply cannot tell a story with any immediacy or importance. The first half of the book (and the only half I'll be reading) summarized any and all conflict and left me thinking, "okay, when is the story going to start?" But it never does after 221 pages. It's beyond boring. A "Beast" comes to the school and puts the entire college in a state of suspended animation and kills a student; and it gets about three pages. I kept having to go back and re-read lines and paragraphs to make sure that it had actually happened. It ends up feeling just as important as the numerous scenes of students drinking wine, and that's an odd effect. And maybe that's Grossman's point--in adolescence, everything is boring? I don't know. But it's bad storytelling and really frustrating to read.
And his characters are wholly, unequivocally unlikable. They're not given enough development--and I'm including the protagonist, Quentin, in this pile of dullards--so they turn out flat and meaningless. I don't get their motivation and at the end of the day, I just don't care. Am I supposed to feel this same ennui that Quentin feels about...everything? Even his magic? I don't know. If so, bravo, Grossman. You've successfully made me not care.
And now, we come to the magic. Um, it's magic. Ma. Gic. It should be cool. There should be whole passages, pages, chapters devoted to it. It should be visceral. It should be amazing and awesome. It is none of these things. The book could have taken place at the University of Minnesota and it wouldn't have mattered. More ennui. More boredom. More summary. Although we do get shape-shifting fox sex. Yes, you read that correctly, and it's beyond creepy. Losing your virginity is awkward and weird enough; did Grossman have to make it fox sex?
I'm confident that I'm in the minority with my opinions of this book, and I'm okay with that. Maybe I'm too old to appreciate it. Maybe I'm not smart enough or cool enough. I'm okay with that, too. And if you want to make a case for it, be my guest, I'll listen. But I will not be finishing this book. And that decision, after 30 days of waffling and trying, makes me happy.
It's not good.
I tried--really hard--to like it. I wanted to like it. During my sporadic reading of the first one hundred awful pages, I continually flipped to the back cover to scan the great blurbs from Junot Diaz (who I think really is a talented writer!), The New Yorker, The Chicago Tribune, and more. I kept saying to myself, "Self, you must be wrong; keep reading and you'll get to the good stuff." But the good stuff never came.
Now, Grossman can write some really nice prose. He's got some lovely metaphors and interesting imagery. But he simply cannot tell a story with any immediacy or importance. The first half of the book (and the only half I'll be reading) summarized any and all conflict and left me thinking, "okay, when is the story going to start?" But it never does after 221 pages. It's beyond boring. A "Beast" comes to the school and puts the entire college in a state of suspended animation and kills a student; and it gets about three pages. I kept having to go back and re-read lines and paragraphs to make sure that it had actually happened. It ends up feeling just as important as the numerous scenes of students drinking wine, and that's an odd effect. And maybe that's Grossman's point--in adolescence, everything is boring? I don't know. But it's bad storytelling and really frustrating to read.
And his characters are wholly, unequivocally unlikable. They're not given enough development--and I'm including the protagonist, Quentin, in this pile of dullards--so they turn out flat and meaningless. I don't get their motivation and at the end of the day, I just don't care. Am I supposed to feel this same ennui that Quentin feels about...everything? Even his magic? I don't know. If so, bravo, Grossman. You've successfully made me not care.
And now, we come to the magic. Um, it's magic. Ma. Gic. It should be cool. There should be whole passages, pages, chapters devoted to it. It should be visceral. It should be amazing and awesome. It is none of these things. The book could have taken place at the University of Minnesota and it wouldn't have mattered. More ennui. More boredom. More summary. Although we do get shape-shifting fox sex. Yes, you read that correctly, and it's beyond creepy. Losing your virginity is awkward and weird enough; did Grossman have to make it fox sex?
I'm confident that I'm in the minority with my opinions of this book, and I'm okay with that. Maybe I'm too old to appreciate it. Maybe I'm not smart enough or cool enough. I'm okay with that, too. And if you want to make a case for it, be my guest, I'll listen. But I will not be finishing this book. And that decision, after 30 days of waffling and trying, makes me happy.