Review: The Magicians by Lev Grossman

I said to a guy, “Tell me, what is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful?” And the guy said, “Well, it intensifies your personality.” And I said, “Yes, but what if you’re an asshole?” —Bill Cosby

Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it. Setting out for an ivy-league college interview, he is immersed in magical intrigue and — perhaps more important to Quentin — a glimpse at a manuscript for a previously-unknown sequel to a magical fantasy series about a group of children that go off to the magical land of Fillory. On chasing down this blowing manuscript, he finds himself just in time to take the entrance exam for Brakebills, a magical university. A magical education later, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.

So, what would you do with a magical education, and a virtually limitless slush fund for freshly-minted magicians? Party 'til you drop, apparently. In the midst of the debauchery, a classmate shows up with intriguing news: There really is a Fillory, and he's found a way to get there. So they go. Not all of them return. In the end, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright adult with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.

Make no mistake: Grossman can write. And, for the first third of the book, that fools you into thinking it's worth reading. The novelty of the approach and the sheer inventiveness throughout lets you excuse some excesses in the characters, lets you call the details "gritty" and refreshing.

Now, I allow a bit more leeway than some do as to what's acceptable to read. I enjoy seeing truth through the eyes of others, and I'm willing to put up with a few things to see that. Some people would be offended at the mere mention of magic. Some people would hurl the book away from themselves should any character take a drink, use foul language, or look at each other in lust. Sinners sin. That's what they do. No need to be surprised by it.

That said, the excesses start piling on heavier and heavier. Time is marked in bottles, and by the midpoint of the book, the characters are pretty much engaged in outright debauchery. I plowed on past these points, thinking "it can't get worse..." and pretty much being wrong, every time. By the end of the book, it's downright gory. I don't mind a little dirt in a good story, but really, must one wallow in it?

It's tempting, at least initially, to compare elements of this story to other greats in the genre. Brakebills = Hogwarts, Fillory = Narnia, and so on. Grossman evidently didn't want to continue any of those traditions for their own sake; fans of Narnia in particular are going to feel like he sullied the tale for no good reason. "Narnia without Aslan" isn't a new literary concept, but the likes of Phillip Pullman attack it directly; in The Magicians, it's more negligent homicide than murder one.

The most pervasive theme throughout the book, however, isn't in the book: it's the intense desire, instilled in the reader, to reach into the pages and slap Quentin & Co. upside the head. Part of the discomfort for me was in identifying with the main character, and realizing that I would have wanted to do the same thing in that situation. Every bad decision that could be made, generally is.

At the end of it all, there are quite a number of things one can take away from the book: Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. Life without purpose is pretty depressing. No amount of talent makes up for being a jerk. Narnia without Aslan is no better than any other place. Escapist fantasy this isn't — quite the opposite. I'm not sorry I visited this particular world, but I'm not going to be making a return trip.

A Modern-Day Book Ban

http://www.city-journal.org/2009/eon0212wo.html

Go. Read. Be outraged.

Twilight

Our house has been taken over by vampires.

It was my fault, really, but Deborah was the first to go. Her ravenous appetite is a spectacle to behold. She... must... read... more! Fortunately, our vampires (and werewolves, and...) are strictly of the fictional variety that live in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, and aren't any more detrimental to our health than the witches and wizards of J.K. Rowling's creation that so occupied us not too long ago. I'd heard some buzz about the books over the last few years, but when people whose literary taste I respected (Yes, Bethany, I'm blaming you) started to gush over them, I figured it was time to investigate. While I was standing around in Wal-Mart, waiting for Deborah to show up at the appointed place, I picked up a copy and started reading it. Engaging enough. So I borrowed a copy from a friend and brought it home.

I didn't get to read it.

Not right away, at least. By the time I bought the second book, and dangled it in front of her as bait, Deborah had read the first book three times. By the time I had moseyed my way through the first book (which I enjoyed) Deborah was desperately searching for a store, library, friend — anyone — who could get her the third. My friend came through again, and she's now read the entire four-book series several times, and is off reading Stephenie Meyer's website as I write this.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this tale, but it is cautionary... these books are addictive. Bring them home at the peril of your sanity, nutrition, and housekeeping.

Now, where was I? Ah, here we are, in book 3...

p. 123 (Or: tag, I'm IT)

I checked my RSS feeds this morning, and discovered that I had been tagged by James Spinti in a little social-networking game.

Here are the rules:

• Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more (no cheating!)
• Find page 123
• Find the first five sentences
• Post the next three sentences
• Tag five people

The closest qualifying book was Icons by Robin Cormack, which I picked up while I was in Chicago observing at the AIA/APA convention. Page 123 gets us into the back of the book (a gorgeous, albeit slim volume) into a catalogue of the icons in the British Museum:

42. Icon with the Mother of God Tikhviniskaya, with metal revetment

Russian, eighteeth century. 36.4 x 31.1 cm
1998.6–5.10

Bequeathed by Sir Frank Kenyon Roberts in 1998

Somehow, the description there seems wholly inadequate. So, I made a quick scan:

There, that's better.

I hereby tag Nathan Eady http://mistersanity.blogspot.com/, Josh Mugele http://1-monkey.blogspot.com/, Mark Grapengater http://rom116.blogspot.com/, Mark Harris http://mdharris.wordpress.com/, and Jeremy Bear http://www.jeremybear.com/blogger/

The Readers

On the evenings after we come home from the library, you really shouldn't expect to get anything done around this house. It just doesn't happen.

A Night Out

My mother-in-law gave all of us Barnes & Noble gift cards for Christmas. Thing is, there isn't a Barnes & Noble store within 50 miles of Winona Lake. So we had to make it a night out on the town. Such a sacrifice. :-)

Our first stop was next door, at the FlatTop Grill. This was a new experience for me; the idea is that it's a build-your-own stir-fry restaurant.

You'd be forgiven for thinking the long counters were a salad bar. In actuality, they're the main attraction. You get a bowl, and start going down the line, adding ingredients and sauces, and at the end you can add a small bowl of meat, and hand it over to the cooks.

There were also some colored swizzle sticks you could add to the bowl, indicating that the chefs should do something additional, like turn it into a soup, or a wrap, and add tofu, shrimp, etc.

I hadn't had more than a noodle soup and a banana all day, and I was starving. Aiden was evidently even hungrier than I was, and once he saw the food, it was quite a job keeping him from crying, at least until I realized that I could put together a bowl of food that didn't have to be cooked, and take it back to the table right away. Problem solved. Restaurant owners, take note... parents who can feed their kids while the adult food is cooking can be very good, grateful tippers... the ability to choose exactly what was in the bowl was a huge bonus. Most "kids' menu" items are hot dogs or mac 'n' cheese. Brown rice with black bean sauce went over far better!

By the time Aiden was satisfied, the food started arriving. My first attempt at making my own stir-fry was... subtle. White noodles with eggs, tofu, tomatoes, mushrooms, and chicken are good, but none of those ingredients exactly burst with wild flavor. My second attempt more than made up for the subtlety of the first: Yellow noodles with tomatoes, cilantro, tangerines, a load of hot peppers, mushrooms, red and green onions, and beef, drenched an an Asian peanut sauce. Oh, that was good. The Kerrs split a mango sorbet for dessert.

Once we settled up the bill (kids four and under eat free; that helped balance out the right-side-of-the-menu sticker shock for adults) we walked next door to Barnes & Noble.

Deborah found a large, squashy armchair and a small table, and sat down with the kids and a few books to read to them, while I was sent to gather more. We took turns reading to the kids and exploring the store. I found a Calvin and Hobbes collection that had somehow eluded my attention all these years; there went my portion of the gift card. We found a neat book called Not a Box for the kids, and got a copy for a friend of ours, as well. Deborah got something by Mercedes Lackey, and I have no idea what Paul and May got. (The person who gave us the gift cards is reading this, which is why I mention all this.)

We stayed way past the kids' bedtime — the store closed at 11:00! — and paid dearly for that oversight when we got home, but it was, on the whole, a very fun night out.