If anyone read the first two paragraphs of my article The Mythical Open Relationship or even just took a glance at my bio, you would know I am a huge sucker for fantasy fiction. I took a class on Lord of the Rings and was tested on elf genealogy, I have read the Harry Potter books too many times to count, read His Dark Materials when I could barely read, love Medieval Times, and basically read or watch anything that is set in a different time or place. Now that I have convinced everyone that I am an overly-qualified dork, everyone who is a secret dork can take me seriously when I recommend a new book: The Magicians by Lev Grossman.
Grossman is a pretty legit author, as he is a senior writer and book critic for TIME Magazine – which happens to be my dream job at my dream magazine – but I didn’t even know about his qualifications when I first opened this book. On Sunday when I was going home to New Jersey for Father’s Day I was stuck in Penn Station for an hour because I misread the train schedule, and killed time perusing covers in a book store while being harassed by homeless people. Obviously this book caught my eye, since anything with the word “magic” draws my attention like a moth to a flame, and I couldn’t resist buying it. Four hundred pages and two days later, here is my tale:
The Magicians is basically Harry Potter with sex, drugs, and pure evil that cannot be blamed on underlying daddy-problems (ahem, Voldemort). While a review on the back cover says “Harry Potter for adults,” it’s really not that cut and dry. The cursing and cocaine and alcoholism and drunken horny sex is a relief to read, since I always wondered why everyone at Hogwarts wasn’t constantly wasted on Firewhiskey and using their wands to create mindblowing hallucinogens (but we all know Fred and George were definitely on something). The problem is JK Rowling had already targeted a young audience and trapped her story on an unrealistically sober and rule abiding school campus, whereas Grossman has no boundaries to tread carefully.
Through the first ten pages I was a little skeptical because the Narnia and Alice in Wonderland allusions of stumbling down a rabbit hole into a magical world seemed so clichéd, but then I realized all fantasy books have to start somewhere. The uncomfortable and abrupt removal from home is all part of the formulaic fantasy hero-cycle: Sam and Frodo have to leave the Shire, Harry has to leave his Muggle saturated cupboard, etc. Otherwise there is no adventure.
Finally some magic happens in America, as it seems all the best fantasy novels are written by British authors (Tolkien, Rowling, Lewis, Clarke) who have extremely British characters in not-so-subtle British settings. The magic school in The Magicians is in upstate New York, giving us a relatable and accessible environment that we can all picture ourselves in. And the school is a college, not a grade school for eleven to seventeen year olds, which makes it a perfect escape for all us collegiettes who are bored with the disenchanted quality of college life. The main character Quentin is one of those disenchanted people who wishes to see the world through the rose-tinted lens of his childhood fantasy novels, and when he finally gets to see it, it’s a lot more dangerous, sexy, and real than he ever thought it could be.