Book Review: The Magicians by Lev Grossman

Quentin Coldwater is a little bitch. Like every 20-something these days, he wants to be happy. At the very least, he wants to feel something. And yet he does nothing but complain and moan and feel sorry about the sad state of his life. He fights with his friends, cheats on his girlfriend, gives up on magic.
“Wait, what?†you may ask. That’s right: Quentin Coldwater is a magician. Not the cards-and-coins-sleight-of-hand kind but the I’m-going-to-smoke-your-ass-with-a-fireball variety. He and his friends attend Brakesbills Academy in upstate New York, and like non-magic folk, they pass their time by drinking their livers to oblivion. After graduating, they lavishly languish in Manhattan, whereupon one day they cross into a Narnia-esque world and undergo a quest. And that’s where it all goes to shit.
In Lev Grossman’s book, The Magicians, published last August, readers are introduced to a cast that is reminiscent of Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Quentin, the story’s hero, is no Harry Potter (though Grossman certainly winks at J.K Rowling as well as C.S Lewis and J.R.R Tolkien): he’s foolish, selfish and immensely unhappy. Grossman–though taking on a fantasy narrative replete with magic stags, skanky naiads and drunk-talking bears–does not gloss over the humanity of his characters. Frankly, they are all fuck-ups, just like you and me. Quentin and his friends are not playing Quidditch; they are failing upwards and suffering from the deepest post-modern depression to hit quarter-lifers this side of Middle Earth.
And that is where the book strikes on gold. Although Grossman inexcusably overuses the word “viscous,†The Magicians is a quick, fun read, especially if you yourself are in an existential crisis. God/Aslan/Dumbledore knows I am.
The Magicians: A Novel by Lev Grossman, $17.79 on Amazon