Take a photo of a barcode or cover
A review by wentworthian
The Magicians: Alice's Story by Pius Bak, Lev Grossman, Lilah Sturges
4.0
From Grossman's interview with Goodreads after this book came out:
Woof.
As someone who still catches themselves, late at night, or alone in a particularly quiet stretch of tree-filled path around Japan—this country is, unsurprisingly, full of things that make you look at them hard for a long time, waiting for something to look back—thinking that, you know, maybe this is where the adventure starts, maybe this is when life becomes as interesting as was promised—well. This book was all but a personal attack. Quentin was far enough removed from me in many ways that I only sometimes found him exasperating and difficult to read. I often felt pity for him, almost maternally, in a way that a) usually doesn't happen for me with novels and b) I don't even feel for real men? I just wanted to bodily hurl him into therapy and make him some nice soup?? I was rarely too frustrated his attitude and behavior because, to me, it so clearly came from a depression and self-loathing I found uncomfortably familiar, particularly at that time of life, particularly for someone who was always considered "special" or "gifted" and found out how little that actually mattered, in the great scheme of things. When he finally toldthe Beast that the worst fate was having to live with yourself, I almost screamed (even if it didn't provoke the great self-realization in him I was hoping for).
In some ways, having a hero like Quentin was like having cold water thrown on myself—I still go through black periods of thinking, life should be brighter and it's not fair that it isn't. The cast was difficult to love, even more difficult to root for, but I think having come from nasty depression and an "I was told I was gifted, so why isn't everything Easy and Good" background, I just wanted them to have their moments of happiness, to find something to cling to, and press on. Reading this was like standing behind someone who's stuck in a mire and pushing them out, uphill, even as they sank all their weight back onto you. I loved it, even as I wanted to ring their necks, but lovingly, like a mother with a sullen teen who has just learned to spot the hypocrisy in "Because I said so."
It shouldn't have worked, really. These characters are sad, angry, petty people, and had the writing not been so light and straightforward, I probably would have given up halfway through. Grossman has a wonderful ear for dry comedy and humorous, piercing observations that simultaneously elevates his characters above ~the plebes~ and utterly punctures the self-important identities they have constructed for themselves. The way he gently skewers Quentin (and everyone else, except perhaps Alice) kept his self-loathing and holier-than-thou attitude, from being anything but eye-rollingly in-character. There wasn't even a whiff of narrative support for his Nice Guy-ness, and I couldn't have been happier. Quentin and everyone else were big dumb idiots and the book leaned hard, maybe too hard, into that. Thank god.
I could have done with less drunken binges, even as I recognized them as that combination of early-20s partying and self-medicating, and boy, did the first part of this book plod along. I was deeply interested in Brakebills, but the book raced through five (four?) years, and yet, as it took up the first 60% of the novel, it seemed achingly slow at times. I knew this whole Fillory thing was coming, and wanted it to get there. Maybe that was the point. I suppose I can't fault it for that.
"I think everybody feels a bit out of place in life—like they've been slightly miscast or incorrectly routed. We're wired to expect the world to be brighter and more meaningful and more obviously interesting than it actually is. And when we realize that it isn't, we start looking around for the real world."
Woof.
As someone who still catches themselves, late at night, or alone in a particularly quiet stretch of tree-filled path around Japan—this country is, unsurprisingly, full of things that make you look at them hard for a long time, waiting for something to look back—thinking that, you know, maybe this is where the adventure starts, maybe this is when life becomes as interesting as was promised—well. This book was all but a personal attack. Quentin was far enough removed from me in many ways that I only sometimes found him exasperating and difficult to read. I often felt pity for him, almost maternally, in a way that a) usually doesn't happen for me with novels and b) I don't even feel for real men? I just wanted to bodily hurl him into therapy and make him some nice soup?? I was rarely too frustrated his attitude and behavior because, to me, it so clearly came from a depression and self-loathing I found uncomfortably familiar, particularly at that time of life, particularly for someone who was always considered "special" or "gifted" and found out how little that actually mattered, in the great scheme of things. When he finally told
In some ways, having a hero like Quentin was like having cold water thrown on myself—I still go through black periods of thinking, life should be brighter and it's not fair that it isn't. The cast was difficult to love, even more difficult to root for, but I think having come from nasty depression and an "I was told I was gifted, so why isn't everything Easy and Good" background, I just wanted them to have their moments of happiness, to find something to cling to, and press on. Reading this was like standing behind someone who's stuck in a mire and pushing them out, uphill, even as they sank all their weight back onto you. I loved it, even as I wanted to ring their necks, but lovingly, like a mother with a sullen teen who has just learned to spot the hypocrisy in "Because I said so."
It shouldn't have worked, really. These characters are sad, angry, petty people, and had the writing not been so light and straightforward, I probably would have given up halfway through. Grossman has a wonderful ear for dry comedy and humorous, piercing observations that simultaneously elevates his characters above ~the plebes~ and utterly punctures the self-important identities they have constructed for themselves. The way he gently skewers Quentin (and everyone else, except perhaps Alice) kept his self-loathing and holier-than-thou attitude, from being anything but eye-rollingly in-character. There wasn't even a whiff of narrative support for his Nice Guy-ness, and I couldn't have been happier. Quentin and everyone else were big dumb idiots and the book leaned hard, maybe too hard, into that. Thank god.
I could have done with less drunken binges, even as I recognized them as that combination of early-20s partying and self-medicating, and boy, did the first part of this book plod along. I was deeply interested in Brakebills, but the book raced through five (four?) years, and yet, as it took up the first 60% of the novel, it seemed achingly slow at times. I knew this whole Fillory thing was coming, and wanted it to get there. Maybe that was the point. I suppose I can't fault it for that.