You know when you run out of books to read? Well, that was me about a month ago. But then I remembered ‘The Magus’ by John Fowles. My mate raved about it during our A-levels, and even though that was 25 years ago, memories of his enthusiasm were still fresh in my mind. At a loose end, I decided to give it a shot. And now I’m sitting here, shaken and bruised, trying to pick up the pieces and make sense of it on the other side. Clearly, I had no idea what I was getting into.
For those who don’t know, The Magus is the second novel published by John Fowles (although it’s the first he ever wrote). Overall, it’s best described as a complex novel that intertwines themes of existentialism with psychology and the nature of reality. And if that doesn’t sound intriguing enough, the book features many occult and esoteric motifs along with an overriding sense of deception and foul play.
In terms of the premise, the protagonist is a young Englishman called Nicholas Urfe, who takes up a teaching post on the Greek island of Phraxos. Handsome and commitment-phobic, Nicholas only seems to know how to keep his options open. He arrives on the island having just escaped a turbulent relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Alison, and he’s hopeful of using his free time to further develop his skills as a poet.
Stuck on Phraxos in the winter with no women to distract him, Nicholas battles feelings of isolation and disillusionment, especially after realising that his poetry skills aren’t good enough to help him quit teaching English. Aloof and alone, he entertains thoughts of suicide. But as spring turns to summer, he becomes intrigued by tales of a wealthy, mysterious man called Maurice Conchis, who lives in a grand villa surrounded by pines on the island’s southern headland.
Their first meeting proves strangely polite yet unforgettable, after which Conchis draws Nicholas into a series of elaborate psychological games. These involve hallucinatory experiences, dark philosophical discussions and demonstrations, and a romantic liaison with ‘Lilly’, an intoxicating young woman from England who isn’t who she claims to be.
As the novel progresses, Conchis’s ‘experiments’ confound Nicholas and compel him to confront his own perceptions of reality. Increasingly, Nicholas (and, indeed, the reader) finds it impossible to be sure of what is true as a sense of hazard and intrigue clouds every turn.
This is only a simplified summary of what you can expect. As I said, it’s a complex narrative and, at times, quite bewildering. But it’s a novel I found myself quite happily lost inside. The story is known for its open-ended narrative. Forewarned with this knowledge, I decided to enjoy the journey rather than the prospect of any destination.
This immersion was helped by the engaging prose, which is quite stunning in parts. Some of Fowles’ descriptions of the Greek landscape imprinted into my brain like exposures on a film strip. The cast, meanwhile, is relatively light, primarily relying on the interplay between Maurice, Nicholas, and Lilly. Still, Fowles characterises them all with compelling and impressive detail. Maurice Conchis, in particular, must be one of the most enigmatic fictional characters I’ve ever met.
By the end, I felt broken and exhausted – no doubt, just like the author intended. Ultimately, The Magus didn’t quite live up to the promise I was hoping for around ninety per cent of the way in. That said, it’s still one of the most remarkable books I’ve ever read. Don’t wait 25 years like I did.