the magicians

Whenever I read a book that can even remotely be classified as literary fiction, I suffer a bit of anxiety. I usually read what publishers consider as genre or mainstream/commercial fiction. Genre stories are straightforward and while they are highly entertaining and can communicate wonderful emotions and human truths, they aren't supposed to be full of hidden images, symbols and mind blowing insights into the human condition.


So, when I read literary fiction the anxiety comes when I start thinking to myself...am I getting 'it.' The 'it' being whatever lesson or moral the writer is trying to impart. "The Magicians" qualifies as literary fiction and even though the book started off really well and even though the blurbs on the back cover rave about the novel, it was just okay for me.

Part of it I loved; I thought Lev Grossman did a wonderful job of digging deep into the whole idea that learning magic and being a magician is hard, mind numbing, body damaging work. Yet, the whole coming of age angst, what does it all mean, and ennui laden tone of the book just didn't appeal to me. The characters became self indulgent and irritating and the book began to lose its charm.

The writing, in many spots, is beautiful. Grossman writes lean and powerful prose. The pace of the book is good. The concept of the book is really neat.

But for all those good things, at the end it fell flat for me. Maybe I just didn't get 'it'.......