And the prize for the weirdest book of my year goes to…The Magus.
Not my first foray into John Fowles’ writing – I am a big fan ofThe Collector– but not what I was expecting. I had a feeling thatThe Magusmight be a bit experimental given what I’d seen from this author before, but whilstThe French Lieutenant’sWoman is metafiction, this is METAfiction, complete with an odd plot and all mannerof abstract goings on.
To summarise,The Magusis a psycho-sexual thriller, following Nicholas Urfe, an educated, manipulative loner with commitment issues and an unmerited high opinion of himself. He has a predictably doomed love affair, and heads off to a Greek island to teach. On the island, he meets Maurice Conchis, an eccentric older man, rich and reclusive. As the weeks of the term unfold, Nicholas is drawn into an elaborate psychological game, a prolonged spectacle which gradually unravels his sense of reality.
His even teeth gleamed falsely, vividly in the intense sunlight. Stupidity is lethal, he implied; and look at me, I have survived.
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Fowles was an excellent writer, and this book is no exception when it comes to the prose. The lexis is an inch shy of pretentious, but there is, I think, a degree of self-awareness which saves it, and the descriptions are beautiful. Fortunately, we are also not really expected to sympathise with Nicholas, who is a difficult character to like. Instead we are encouraged to observe, and to question.
There seemed to be a lot this book was trying to say, but I must confess I did feel at times that the level of abstraction made it difficult to find a meaning. The feelings of confusion Nicholas’ situation provokes, both for him and the reader, leaves the text in places rather foggy, and whilst I was half-expecting a cliffhanger, the book seems to carry on past its biggest surprise, to a strange quasi-ending which neither answered my questions nor left me shocked.
Overall, I felt that this book lacked some essential piece of clarity, which would have given it the weight of intent. The meandering leads the reader to many interesting thoughts, but in places this seemed almost accidental, and random.
He was what life could do if it wanted – an extreme possibility made hideously mind and flesh. Perhaps that was why he could impose himself so strongly, like a black divinity. For there was something superhuman in the spell he cast.
Published in 1965, I do think this is a book which has dated more than the other Fowles novels I have read. There is a great deal of social subtext which will perhaps resonate better with older readers. For myself, born in the nineties, I was aware of a sizable disconnect in experience that I usually associate with much older novels.
This was a dark book, and I found some of its images disturbing. The use of sex is Freudian, and the violence is not the exciting kind, but in places genuinely quite frightening. Overall, I am glad I read this book, because intellectually it was a feast, but I maintain that something in the overall cohesion was lacking.
In short, dubious but interesting. If you are looking for a puzzle but don’t mind not solving it, this is a book for you.
