The Magus by John Fowles
Like many books in Big Thick Novel genre, The Magus has a mixed reputation. During the millenial book list craze it made many top 10 / 25 / 100 lists. I have heard some people refer to it as a book that “changed their life,” yet others complain they could never finish it. In Jasper Fforde’s comedic Well of Lost Plots, it received the 923rd annual BookWorld Award for The Most Incomprehensible Plot. Having finished it on my third attempt, I must admit the the award was somewhat well-deserved.
The plot of The Magus is not incomprehensible, but it is mind-numbingly complicated: a complete brain trip reminiscent of the films The Game and Eyes Wide Shut, or the reality-shifting novels of Philip K. Dick. Every time I thought I’d figured out what was happening, it would be turned on its head within ten pages. Given the book’s 600 pages, that happened a lot.
The story revolves around Nicholas Urfe, a disaffected pseudo-intellectual in 1952 London. He takes a posting teaching English at a private boarding school on a small island off the coast of Greece. Half of the island is the private estate of Maurice Conchis, a mysterious, rich, old man. The school staff and villagers avoid the estate because they believe Conchis was a Nazi collaborator during the war.
It takes roughly a hundred pages for Nicholas to get bored, explore the island, and eventually meet the old man. Then things get weird. Nicholas is drawn into a mystery of international proportions. He spends most of the novel alternately trying to understand what is happening, and trying to extricate himself from the situation. That’s about as far as I will describe the story, but I will warn you: this is not a book one just reads, it is a book one works through.
Have you ever had the experience where someone made a reference you didn’t understand, but everyone around you laughed or nodded knowingly? That happened to me a lot while reading The Magus. I think I’m a fairly intelligent guy, but parts of the book made me feel stupid. I’ve read Othello and Twelfth Night, and was able to understand those references. But I haven’t read or seen The Tempest, so all those references were out. I have a passing familiarity with Greek and Roman mythology, but obviously need a brush-up. There were probably 20 names I recognized, but didn’t remember exactly who they were or what they did.
And then there were the languages… There were small quotations and conversations (nothing more than a paragraph) in French, German, Latin, and contemporary Greek, and the occasional quote or phrase in classical Greek. And the real kicker is the end of the book: it is a quote from Virgil in Latin which, unless you can find the translation, leaves the story with no ending. What the crap?
If there was ever a novel that needed to be footnoted or annotated, this is it. Thanks to Google and the Babel Fish, I was able to make it through. But ten years ago, it would have taken me a month and numerous trips to the reference section of the library to understand everything. Or to understand enough. I’d like to read the book again in a few years to see how much I missed my first time through.
Setting aside complexity, the book was well crafted and erudite: an excellent piece of work. There were some instances of explicit sexuality, but they were not excessive or frequent. Written in the King’s English, there were a few jarring spellings and phrases, but it was very readable, and the prose was enjoyable. It is a long novel, but it kept up an excellent pace throughout, and never seemed to drag on.
The novel is set shortly after WWII, and in Europe, so I was initially worried that I would be unable to relate to any of the characters. There was difficulty in relating, but not for the reason I expected. The time and place of the novel were not the problem: Nicholas Urfe could easily have been a Gen X-er responding to an advert in the back of Utne Reader and teaching English in some developing country. The problem relating was caused by the atheism of Urfe and Conchis.
These were two men without a god, whose lack of faith drove them to do things I didn’t understand. In that sense, it reminded me of the French existential novels of Sarte and Camus: I felt like a voyeur observing the lives of Godless people. At one point Nicholas is observing personified archetypes of fear walking into a room: the bogey-man, a witch, a horned god, etc. The creatures do not frighten him, though, because he feels the last century of science and science fiction have removed from man the ability to ever fear the supernatural again. And I thought, “how sad.” This was not a case of someone struggling with doubt, but of someone completely and utterly devoid of faith. And, as a result, without hope.
Rather than be convinced, as Conchis seems to be, that there is no God, I found the story caused me to reflect on the value a faith and trust in God brings to life. I don’t know about the intention of the author: I’d be curious to see what he has to say. The Magus is a whopping good story; an excellent novel. Coming from the Christian world view, it is an excellent critique of existentialism and atheism run amok.