I originally read The Magicians, by Lev Grossman, roughly three years ago. I wrote a blog post afterwards, trying to parse the distaste I felt when I finished the book.
It was a strange feeling, because Lev's writing was excellent, and so was the story. My feelings were ambiguous; I both loved and loathed it.
I recently read it again, almost in one sitting. I'd forgotten how good the good parts were. I felt compelled to go back and read my original review.
My original review explains that I would never read it again (despite its many merits). My reason? I didn't like the main character, Quentin. What I said about him was true. He's not the most sympathetic character. He's cowardly and sophomoric. He embodies a special kind of brilliant, ignorant, ignoble teenage angst personified, but long beyond the teenage years, which I now see as a metaphor for those of us millenials who can't seem to grow up. He finds emptiness everywhere he looks. Another character in the story tells him essentially "this is all there is, you have to learn to be happy with what you have, instead of assuming true happiness is right around the corner. You'll arrive where you're going, and find that it's still just you, still just reality, and no amount of fantasy or wish fulfillment will fill that void deep inside. That part can only come from within."
Quentin never really learns this lesson, which, looking back, I found very tiresome.
This was where I landed. I disapproved of Quentin. This is still true; he's an idiot. However, I realize that I wasn't being entirely truthful with myself.
I think the real reason I shied away from the book the first time over was that I recognized some of Quentin's tendencies in myself. I hated these tendencies, and so, naturally, I hated him. More than anything, Quentin was unfailingly self-destructive. Avoidant. Don't get me wrong, I was never as bleak or cynical, (or as satirically self-destructive) but I felt his disappointment with the world. And I recognized his inability to pick himself out of it, instead looking externally, eternally, for the solution. I recognized the avoidance, something that I still struggle with (though now I do it consciously).
It didn't help that I had mapped my relationship with my first girlfriend onto the relationship between Quentin and his love interest. I was ignoring the fact that my relationship wasn't going to work out, which deep down I know but couldn't accept. When Quentin's also fell apart, it was like having my face rubbed straight into a truth I wasn't ready to confront. Moreover, Quentin had the power to stop the bleeding, but didn't. I hated him for that, irrationally, because I had no power to fix my relationship, but that didn't stop me from trying. I couldn't understand why Quentin wouldn't set things right. It seemed so easy to me.
Not long after reading this book, I was faced with my own personal crisis. I had to confront these things about myself, and either change or accept them. In some areas I succeeded; others are still a work in progress.
The difference now, I think, is that it's all out in the open. I don't have to convince myself I'm not Quentin. Instead, I accept that which is similar, and the rest doesn't bother me. Without the avoidant psychology going on behind the scenes, I could appreciate the book from a different angle, and enjoy it properly.
It's a great book. It's worth reading. I'm glad I re-read it.
