Review of John Fowles' The Magus
Fowles couldn't find his way out of his own labyrinth
This novel begins with much promise: a disaffected young Englishman, Nicholas Urfe, runs away from a relationship to the (fictional) Greek island of Phraxos, and soon after his arrival he is bored, despondant, and suicidal. Not to worry, though, Nicholas soon wanders onto the property of one Maurice Conchis (“concious”; wink and a nod), who is as mysterious and wealthy as they come. Almost immediately the mind games begin, and Nicholas (and we) cannot be sure what is real and not real, and, more importantly, what it all means. Why we’re here.
Because that’s the essence of this novel: man’s search for meaning, particularly after suffering the horrors of World War 2. That context is important because the novel takes place in 1953, when the world, and particularly Europe, was still recovering. This theme plays throughout the book. Also important is metaphor—mask, theatre, mythical figures, literature. And the mind of man. What it means to be alive and human.
Like other reviewers have written, I, too, was pulled along by the intriguing story, the excellent writing, and the (mostly) fine pacing. It helps that the story takes place in a beautiful Greek setting. Fowles knows how to make you want to step into a scene on the page and join the characters for sandwiches and champagne on the seaside. I was pulled along one episode after another.
But after 500 pages or so, it began to feel like I’d been out on a hike too long, and I was wandering aimlessly. The scenery was beautiful and surprising, but what was I seeing? Why was I here? What did it all mean?
I was getting the feeling that there was nothing coming, and it felt like I was being strung along like the main character, Nicholas Urfe: I wanted to keep coming back to the mansion with him just to find out, just to see, what they would try next. But I didn’t know why.
The problem with the themes and figures and nods to classical literature is that they become an onslaught. A Christ figure should mean something because it’s a Christ figure. References to classical literature should mean something because they are reference points, pointing back to the story you’re in. In The Magus, I think Fowles simply pulled out all the stops. So thrown at us is Shakespeare, Greek gods, Jung, Tarot figures, modern artists, “blue films”. Everybody gets tossed into the pool because, Fowles is clear, God has been tossed out: as one prime character states near the end to explain to Nicholas why he’s been through what he’s been through: “Because there is no God, and it is not a game.”
So: there is no God, and what we’re left with is a wildly wealthy old man who has nothing better to do with his time and energy and money and talents than to seek out other people to help him find individuals to suck into his personal godgame to play with to … Wear funny robes and masks? Act out real life? Teach a lesson, perhaps? That all is “by hazard”?
It’s absurd to me. Because it’s not by chance. The fact is, we live in a fine-tuned universe, and it’s fine-tuned for life. And people wont’ behave like this except by script. But I suppose that’s part of the point.
In the end I was very disappointed and pissed. This is Mr. Fowles first book, so I'll forgive him that. What I won't overlook is his juvenile approach to life and love and what it means “to be” and male/female relationships. Mr. Fowles thinks he's replaced God, but with what? A group of wealthy people who layer lies upon lies for ... in the end, what exactly? We're never told. And we’re never told because, it seems to me, we cannot be told, because there is no reason for it (contrary to what Fowles claims). Because this isn't what drives real people. In the end his characters seem to be props for Fowles’ personal philosophy, and that’s a character-killing place to be.
This is an intriguing idea for a novel that could have been cut easily by 200 pages and lost nothing because, in the end, not much is there except a wild stew of myths and stumblings down one dead-end of the maze to another. (Reading this, you see exactly where such works as "The Game", "Lost", and "Shutter Island" came from.) It’s some fine writing in parts, but to get to the end of this long maze as Fowles has finished it was frustrating, not satisfying.
This novel begins with much promise: a disaffected young Englishman, Nicholas Urfe, runs away from a relationship to the (fictional) Greek island of Phraxos, and soon after his arrival he is bored, despondant, and suicidal. Not to worry, though, Nicholas soon wanders onto the property of one Maurice Conchis (“concious”; wink and a nod), who is as mysterious and wealthy as they come. Almost immediately the mind games begin, and Nicholas (and we) cannot be sure what is real and not real, and, more importantly, what it all means. Why we’re here.
Because that’s the essence of this novel: man’s search for meaning, particularly after suffering the horrors of World War 2. That context is important because the novel takes place in 1953, when the world, and particularly Europe, was still recovering. This theme plays throughout the book. Also important is metaphor—mask, theatre, mythical figures, literature. And the mind of man. What it means to be alive and human.
Like other reviewers have written, I, too, was pulled along by the intriguing story, the excellent writing, and the (mostly) fine pacing. It helps that the story takes place in a beautiful Greek setting. Fowles knows how to make you want to step into a scene on the page and join the characters for sandwiches and champagne on the seaside. I was pulled along one episode after another.
But after 500 pages or so, it began to feel like I’d been out on a hike too long, and I was wandering aimlessly. The scenery was beautiful and surprising, but what was I seeing? Why was I here? What did it all mean?
I was getting the feeling that there was nothing coming, and it felt like I was being strung along like the main character, Nicholas Urfe: I wanted to keep coming back to the mansion with him just to find out, just to see, what they would try next. But I didn’t know why.
The problem with the themes and figures and nods to classical literature is that they become an onslaught. A Christ figure should mean something because it’s a Christ figure. References to classical literature should mean something because they are reference points, pointing back to the story you’re in. In The Magus, I think Fowles simply pulled out all the stops. So thrown at us is Shakespeare, Greek gods, Jung, Tarot figures, modern artists, “blue films”. Everybody gets tossed into the pool because, Fowles is clear, God has been tossed out: as one prime character states near the end to explain to Nicholas why he’s been through what he’s been through: “Because there is no God, and it is not a game.”
So: there is no God, and what we’re left with is a wildly wealthy old man who has nothing better to do with his time and energy and money and talents than to seek out other people to help him find individuals to suck into his personal godgame to play with to … Wear funny robes and masks? Act out real life? Teach a lesson, perhaps? That all is “by hazard”?
It’s absurd to me. Because it’s not by chance. The fact is, we live in a fine-tuned universe, and it’s fine-tuned for life. And people wont’ behave like this except by script. But I suppose that’s part of the point.
In the end I was very disappointed and pissed. This is Mr. Fowles first book, so I'll forgive him that. What I won't overlook is his juvenile approach to life and love and what it means “to be” and male/female relationships. Mr. Fowles thinks he's replaced God, but with what? A group of wealthy people who layer lies upon lies for ... in the end, what exactly? We're never told. And we’re never told because, it seems to me, we cannot be told, because there is no reason for it (contrary to what Fowles claims). Because this isn't what drives real people. In the end his characters seem to be props for Fowles’ personal philosophy, and that’s a character-killing place to be.
This is an intriguing idea for a novel that could have been cut easily by 200 pages and lost nothing because, in the end, not much is there except a wild stew of myths and stumblings down one dead-end of the maze to another. (Reading this, you see exactly where such works as "The Game", "Lost", and "Shutter Island" came from.) It’s some fine writing in parts, but to get to the end of this long maze as Fowles has finished it was frustrating, not satisfying.
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