”She’d always liked Quentin, basically. He was sarcastic and spookily smart and, on some level, basically a kind person who just need a ton of therapy and maybe some mood-altering drugs. Something to selectively inhibit the voracious reuptake of serotonin that was obviously going on inside his skull 24-7. She felt bad about the fact that he was in love with her and that she found him deeply unsexy, but not that bad. Honestly, he was decent-looking, better-looking than he thought he was, but that moody boy-man Fillory shit cut like zero ice with her, and she was smart enough to know whose problem that was, and it wasn’t hers.”
Julia is casting a few stones at our hero Quentin, but Quentin is relatively stable compared to the snarled mess of snakes that are rolling around in her head. She has resentments, great big mounds of resentments that go back to the first book, The Magicians.
You see.
There is a magic school, not Hogwarts or any facsimile of such a school, called Brakebills.
Quentin got in.
Julie did not.
She went a little crazy. Then she went a lot crazy. Then she decided to give Brakebills the double finger salute and learn magic on her own. The only course open to her was the underground magic scene, most of them colossal losers, but she continued to sort through the rotten barrel of apples until she found one or two magicians worth taking a bite out of.
Quentin discovers that the fairy tale world that he grew up reading about was actually real. He finds a way to go there with his friends (including the moody but gorgeous Julia who he still carries a torch for), and after an epic battle they assume control of the kingdom of Fillory. Quentin is nearly chewed in half, and in need of some replacement parts. Thank goodness for centaurs.
The ones that survived and also decided to stay become Kings and Queens of Fillory. Eliot is the high King. Janet and Julia become Queens, and of course, Quentin rounds it out to make it four. As they lounge around with too few duties to occupy their time Quentin notices that he is putting on weight. ”No wonder kings looked so fat in pictures. One minute you’re Prince Valiant, the next you’re Henry VIII.”
He decides it is time for an adventure. Eliot isn’t that interested.
”I understand the appeal this sort of thing has for you, quests and King Arthur and all that. But that’s you. No offense, but it always seemed a bit like boy stuff to me. Sweaty and strenuous and just not very elegant, if you see what i mean. I don’t need to be called to feel special, I feel special enough already. I’m clever, rich, and good-looking. I was perfectly happy where I was , deliquescing, atom by atom, amid a riot of luxury.”
I wonder how long Eliot had that gem worked up in his head waiting for the perfect moment to trot it out for maximum effect.
After a few misstarts in finding the proper adventure, Quentin lands on the search for the seven golden keys. He is pleasantly surprised that Julia, damaged somewhat deranged Julia, decides to go with him. ”The wind had caught her black hair and was whipping it wildly around her face. She looked outrageously beautiful. It might have been a trick of the light, but her skin had a silvery, unearthly quality, as if it would shock him if he touched it. If they were going to fall in love with each other, it was going to happen on this ship.”
I’m going to take some of the suspense out of the epic romance scenario. It is not going to happen. Not that Julia was frigid, well cold, but not Arctic.
”There was enough hiding in life. Sometimes you just wanted to show somebody your tits.”
That would be everyone but Quentin. (Technically she does show him her breasts, but not under the circumstances that was part of a romantic interlude.)
The golden key quest goes sideways and Julia and Quentin are zipped out of Fillory and back to...OMG...Earth.
”Everything was toxic and chemical and unnatural; the plastic walnut trim, the electric lights, the burning gasoline that was shoving them forward. This whole world was a processed petroleum product.”
They need a kid and need one quickly.
”The boy had fine tousled brown hair and blue eyes. A more quintessential English moppet it would have been hard to find, right down to his having a spot of trouble pronouncing his l’s and r’s. He could have been cloned from Christopher Robin’s toenail clippings.”
Proper geography, perfect kid, games, and maybe, just maybe, a seam will open up taking them back to Fillory.
There may not be a more magical city in the world than Venice so it is no surprise that Lev Grossman takes us there as part of the Earth side of the adventure. There is also Neitherlands, the land between Fillory and Earth where they discover that magic is being systematically siphoned off from Earth and Fillory. The quest for the golden keys is now much more than just an adventure. It is a race to save magic and keep Fillory from becoming nothing more than a fairy tale memory. There are clock trees, the sound of crickets fucking (I’m still puzzling over what that sounds like.), talking fish, an animated corpse, a philosophical sloth, old pagan Gods (nasty buggers), a walk through the underworld, and death defying acts of courage.
Intermingled with Quentin’s misadventures is the back story of Julia before she gets to Fillory. With hard work, tenacity, and a few strategic hand jobs she was able to acquire the knowledge she needed to catch up and surpass the Brakebills’s whiz kids. With the help of the most talented underground magicians she attempts to summon an ancient god and something much more sinister appears.
It is a gut wrenching moment that bears too high a cost. Whatever conceived notions I had of Julia are rewritten in curlicues of pain, regret, and anguish.
I personally have no interest in meeting any GOD. How could they be anything but petulant, angry, unpredictable, violent, churlish, destructive, flaming…? Well, you know what I mean.
The book starts slow as did the first one, but Lev Grossman continues to build steam as the plot unspools. He hits his stride in the final half of each book, masterfully ratcheting up the tension leaving this reader with tingling nerves and a buzzing brain.
Quentin is far from the perfect hero. He is self-absorbed, privileged, but all of that is counterbalanced by his charming belief in the power of fairy tales. The ending left me gobsmacked and fumbling desperately for the third and final book in the trilogy. If you are looking for something to tide you over until J. K. Rowling decides to give in and write another Harry Potter book, this ain’t it. Quentin Coldwater and his friends are not Gryffindor material. This series is edgy, unpredictable, and moody with dysfunctional heroes that could hang with Bret Easton Ellis and think who brought the stiff?