Amateur Book Review : The Magicians by Lev Grossman

Amateur Book Review : The Magicians by Lev Grossman

This is the first time I will be writing a review of a book, so please bear with me if this turns out to be what you do not expect.

This book was included in a list I read somewhere about the 100 Best Science Fiction Books of All Time. Among that list is The Lord of the Rings, 1984, Necromancer, and the works of Isaac Asimov, Neal Stephenson, Robert Jordan, and others. You get the drift.

When I read the title, I thought to myself, “Harry Potter.” When I read it at first, there was no magical feeling of discovering a new world, just a rehashing of all the old cliches of magical worlds and mythologies. This is kind of what I felt with the books of Rick Riordan with his Percy Jackson books. This book has been heavily influenced by the work of C.S. Lewis, particularly his “Narnia” series. You can see it with the scenes of the children going inside an ordinary home furniture, a grandfather clock instead of a wardrobe, and coming out in a magical world. There's also an Aslan reference with the ram gods Amber and Umber, and a similar four thrones for the human kings and queens. A Peter Pan similarity to Martin Chatwin is also there as well as a Hogwarts in Brakebills'.

The book hits its stride after the kids graduate from the school. I realized while I was reading this part that the previous pages were just preparation for the emotional roller coaster that the book brings out in me. Much like Quentin and the Physical Kids clique had to study magical incantations to prepare for the real world, some of the earlier scenes laid the background for what will be happening later.

Quentin, the main protagonist, has won the genetics/circumstance lotto. He has magical abilities. But much like what would happen to your worldly ambitions should you win the lottery, Quentin and his gang has everything they've ever wanted, and it has made them deeply unhappy. There was an earlier scene where Alice made Quentin promise not to grow up being exactly like her magical parents. People who has it all and thus bored out of their minds. They don't have any overriding ambition to do anything else, except to have a fictional book about magic go real and the ensuing pathos resonated with me, thinking, I could be them.

The magical beings and the magical world they inhabit becomes secondary to the emotional milieu of the book. Going inside a grandfathers clock suddenly takes on a sinister turn as the reason behind why a kid would hide behind it is revealed. Going to Neitherland and on to Fillory instead of rotting away in a boring desk job may be a reflection of how we want to escape our own ennui. I could be Quentin, I realized. If The Lord of the Rings suddenly became real and I could go to middle-earth through the Neitherlands. I would be happy, but then again I could live to regret it.

My Brush with Death

My friend asked me to recall in writing how I almost died. He particularly wanted to read about it because to hear me tell it is hilarious. I am a bit of a raconteur, if I may say so myself, and I don't mind looking silly or bad in the pursuit of a few laughs.

He asked me to write about an incident I had with our motorcycle. I needed to clarify which one because I've had several accidents and several near brushes. http://www.grmtech.com/blog/always-wear-helmets-while-riding-a-motorcycle/

Considering my harrowing experiences, you would think that I would swear not to get back on a motorcycle ever again, but if you think that, you don't know me at all. I'm the kind of person who likes to face her fears. That's not to say that when I'm a passenger in my brothers' bike that I get on it without any qualms. Quite often, his ears would be burning from my admonitions to not go too fast, remember that facebook photo of a brain splattered on the pavement, etc., etc.

Now, to get back to the story. I don't really drive motorbikes anymore, am usually just a passenger with my brother driving me to the bus stop. It was business as usual and I have forgone wearing a protective helmet as our destination was just over a kilometer away. My brother IS was driving me to the bus stop and we were speeding along as traffic was light that night. My brother knew that our brake was faulty but he took a chance with his speed. He's a gambler that way.

So here I was, enjoying the wind in my hair, savoring the freshness of the air and dreading my coming shift at the call center I was working at. I hated that we were transferred to chat support and I was having a difficult time adjusting to it. I was jolted from my musings by my brother's cursing. “Putanginaaa!!!,” he said. “Tanginaaa!!!,” I echoed, just as we crashed headlong into the tricycle trying to cross the highway. I always figured that I would confess and ask for God's forgiveness just before I died so that I would go straight to heaven. No purgatory for me, nuh-uh! As it happened, had I died that night, I would have gone straight to hell.

I found that most accounts of accidents are true, and that Hollywood's version of action happening in slow motion is correct as well. Those few seconds of before we crashed and our reations after can be recalled in minute detail, like it was stretched across time, with our reactions exaggerated and having a bigger significance beyond the moment. I remember right after hearing my brother's curse looking ahead and there was this tricycle, stopped in the middle of the lane, seeing us ahead, but still continuing forward. I could see the slight shift of my brothers' head as he contemplated between crashing into the back of a parked car, going around the left side and into incoming traffic, or squeezing between the tricycle and the parked car. He chose to go between but it was too late. He's already tried to brake full-stop, I immediately felt we slowed down, but not enough for us to avoid smooching the other driver. The back wheel of our bike left the road, with me on top of it. Thanks to my Famke Janssen thighs I managed to hold on. We tilted sideways, I looked to my right and saw the road and the edge of the pavement rushing in to bash my skull. I remember thinking, if my head bangs on that, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, Diyos ko po Rudy (Diyos ko po, Rudy or OMG Rudy being a phrase we like to say, taken from a radio commercial that I haven't even heard)!!! I unclenched my fingers from the death grip they had on my brothers' arms and braced myself for the impact. I still managed to kiss asphalt and tasted grit, uh, to think people spit on it. Then I looked at the tricycle driver and saw that he was still sitting pretty astride his bike and all this rage came bubbling up. “Tangina ka, muntik na kaming mamataaayy!!!,” said my inner Bella Flores. Education and poise be damned, we almost died. I tore strips from off of the other drivers' hide, all the while knowing that whoever gets the upper hand first will not get the blame for it. Underneath all the anger was my brain calculating how we could pin the blame on the other driver. Of course, since my brain was still functioning, I noted that it was already 8:30 P.M. And I'm supposed to be at my desk before 9. I'm partly gleeful as I get to play hooky and in this frame of mind my first call after the accident was to my boss (who incidentally looks like John Regala while planning to rape a beautiful gel).

“Hi Boss Jim!,” I said cheerfully when he picked up the phone. “I won't be able to go to work today,” I said while thinking yey! This would be at least two days and I have an excuse. “Huh, why?,” he asked. All of a sudden, it hit me that I could have died, as in Killed Dead, as Baygon ads go (I don't know if it's possible to kill alive, or kill partly). I tried to speak normally, but my voice went from being husky-sexy, then ear-splittingly awful, as I went from normal to having my voice break on a sob, then plainly wailing out that we almost got killed. Thankfully, I walked a little bit away from the scene of the accident so nobody witnessed me doing an impersonation of a wailing banshee. My normally blustery boss was flustered trying to handle a crying employee. The conversation ended with him asking if I will be coming in later and me saying I don't think so as we will still be going to the hospital and then on to the police station to file a complaint. I think I hid my satisfaction at this behind my hiccups.

I composed myself before going back into the fray and noted that the broken metal thingies that were lying on the road have now disappeared. Huh. Metal railings affixed on bridges disappear overnight. These things were no longer attached to our bike and they disappeared during the course of a phone call. I must learn how to do that.

Well, the rest is history, we were relatively unscathed although it took a week before I could fully type without any pain. I had my brother undergo an x-ray and get antitetanus shots since he had wounds from his contact with the filthy tricycle. The other driver was okay and I filed a police blotter more to excuse my absence than to prosecute him.

What's hard is that my boss never fails to remind me of how I cried when I called him, then laugh maniacally while gleefully recalling it to whoever would care to listen. Hmp. Bully. Che!

On Damaso and Jailtime

Early last year (I'm not too clear on the time-frame), thespian and tour guide Carlos Celdran walked inside a Roman Catholic cathedral dressed in 19^th century garb and held up a placard with the words “Damaso” written on it. This was done while a concelebration event (not a mass, as Celdran clarified later) was being held with several priests, bishops, and laity were present.

Damaso, of course, is a central character in Jose Rizal's novel “Noli Me Tangere.” He is a Spanish friar heavily biased against what he considers his “lessers” and so morally corrupt that to be called a “Damaso” is to insult your integrity and your character. http://bethge.freepage.de/padredamaso.htm

One of the recent events that call into question the bishop's integrity is the way they accepted luxury vehicles from former Philippine President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. The funds were gotten from off of the Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office and the funds were supposed to go to the poorest of the poo and the sickest of the sick. The bishops knew where the funds came from and whom they were getting it from. It represented a kind of bribe to keep them from voicing out against a government that has no right to rule, given that the last elections were rigged so heavily in the then incumbent's favor. The bishops offered to return the vehicles once the scandal was unveiled but the rot had set in. http://zamoracartoons.blogspot.com.au/2011/07/bishops-cars.html

Things came to a head once the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines pulled out all the stops in their war against the Reproductive Health bill. The Reproductive Health bill had been languishing in the House of Representatives for over a decade. Congressmen would sponsor it then bail out once the bishops threaten to endorse their opponents. The Catholic clergy had been putting all of their power into blocking its passage, saying it is against God's will to take pills or don condoms to prevent pregnancy. They even contend that some birth control methods have abortifacients. The message is somehow diluted/corroded coming from the same bishops who virtually took crumbs from the mouth of the poor dying from hunger in order to travel in air-conditioned luxury. Granted that they later apologized for doing it, but it's like Lance Armstrong admitting to taking Performance Enhancing Drugs. They've already lived the life and taken to the podium to bask in the glory. Victory is just a moment and it can never be relived. Just like apologies cannot resurrect people who died from hunger or sickness.

Carlos Celdran went inside a Catholic Church where these bishops are to give them a mental slap about who they've allowed themselves to be. I know that they are fallible human beings, but idols with feet of clay should not stand in a pulpit and expect nobody to bash them. I do not know what his impetus is, it may be to highlight our need for the Reproductive Health bill, or to hold up a mirror for the bishops to see the truth about themselves, but it did do something : the Reproductive Health bill is now a Law.

It also did something else. It put Carlos Celdran into jail. Or he was sentenced to spend two months behind prison bars. I think Celdran intends to appeal (I would) the verdict.

Now, would it be justice served if he was incarcerated? I don't think so. I would think that the bishops should be thankful to Celdran for trying to humiliate them. As one priest puts it: God uses humiliation to bring down the proud. Let me bludgeon you if you did not get it the first time: You would not be humiliated if you were not proud (Pride is one of the Cardinal Sins, pun unintentional, but too amusing to leave out). But this is not to say that the venue he chose for his protest is proper. I myself as a Catholic would be offended had I witnessed this. The hullaballoo he created could only be excused if he was missing some nuts in his mind's bolts. Only escaped mental hospital patients scream inside a church (by the way, I don't know if he screamed, but this is like a scream to me, no matter how quiet he may have been. I'm also not saying Celdran is crazy. Remember, he's a thespian, an Artiste, if you will. These genus of the homo sapiens tend to act, well, theatrically).

If he had done it outside the church, or even inside a convention hall where the Queen of England, the Philippine President, all the laity, the Pope, the Cardinals, Bishops, Monsignors, Priests, and even the cadaver of St. Theresa of Calcutta were present, that would be fine by me. Even a Grade Two Catholic school pupil would know to genuflect in order to cross the aisle inside a church, you know you can't really do what you did no matter how rebellious a laity you feel.

Now, would it merit a two-month jail time? I don't think so. I agree about the conviction that he offended religious beliefs or feelings or whatever law it is that he broke, but I also think that standing up for what you believe in should be celebrated, not incarcerated. Only those beliefs that become a menace to society or harmful to individuals should merit time behind bars.