The Magus by John Fowles
1966 (revised edition: 1977)
Because it was such a long time between first discovering this book and
actually getting my hands on it, I was determined to enjoy it. Now that I have
finished it, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. Yes, I enjoyed it, or
rather, I enjoyed the writing. The story itself – not so much.
But first things first. The book follows the twenty-something Nicholas
Urfe who, in his desperation to escape the Sahara his life has turned into,
accepts a teaching job on a small Greek island called Phraxos. Now, Phraxos
might seem like a genuine paradise upon Earth, but that is until Nicholas meets
the mysterious Maurice Conchis and it soon becomes the backdrop for a bizarre
psychological experiment into which Nicholas is drawn.
Even though the beginning of the book really got me interested and the
text even seemed to have a certain John Green-esque feel to it (but of a slightly
different, better, quality), the more the story and the experiment within it
evolved, the more confusing it all got. The strange and even ridiculous events
unfolding on the island were hard to relate to or find realistic. I had to
constantly wonder what was happening, why was it happening and what was it all
leading to. And although we are given various hints as to why anyone would
organize or participate in such a farce, no solid explanation of the reasons
behind this experiment is provided. All in all, this elaborate yet pointless
experiment seems completely not worth the effort invested to organize it (or to
read about it, for that matter), if only to satisfy the whimsies of a rich
extraordinaire that Mr. Conchis is. Also, it seems very unlikely that all of this
could have been accomplished back in the 1950s when the most efficient means of
communication was the telegraph.
Another thing I had a problem with was the incredibly irritating personality
of Nicholas Urfe. Although completely at the mercy and under the control of
Conchis, he often thinks he has got him (or others) outsmarted and cornered,
that they have nothing left to do but confess everything. The cynical little
smile he so often offers to his puppeteers, makes one really want to strangle
the book. The childish anger and the tendency he so often displays makes him
even less likeable. He is seeking answers but when the ones provided do not fit
his iron-clad theories, he becomes furious. More than once he shows a
tendency towards violence, by thinking he can beat the truth out of
somebody. He constantly sees himself as a victim and is expecting apologies
because he is hurt and being played with, yet he never understands the consequences of
his own behaviour. He never considers anyone else’s needs or feelings as long as he gets what he
wants.
Maybe with time I’ll come
to understand what the meaning of this book was, but for now I don’t. Frankly, I’m
not a fan of big books with tons of text which don’t really say anything. And to my mind these kind of “unfinished” books, i.e., books that provide no
answers and sort of leave it all hanging in the air, are an
insult to every reader.
"I was too green to know that all cynicism masks a failure to cope – an impotence, in short; and that to despise all effort is the greatest effort of all."
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