A Strange Tale

So, that epic long book that I started reading on my Indiana trip? Well, I was finally able to finish all 782 pages of it, and now I can bring you the full breakdown.

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is an "historical fiction" novel set in early 1800s England. The two title characters are the only magicians in the entire country, first comrades, then rivals. One seeks to horde all existing books of magic and keep tight control over the spread of magic; the other wants to fully explore forgotten magics and hopefully return practice of the art into common usage. Along the way, the book treats you (liberally) to a lavish and elaborate back story of magic in England over the last several centuries, puts one of the characters into the Duke of Wellington's fight against Napoleon, and hops between the real world and a strange faerie reality.

I'd once heard this book described as "Harry Potter for adults," but was rather skeptical of such a claim -- I think the Harry Potter series itself does a fine job of not being "just for kids." No, I'd say Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is for the extraordinarily patient, or extraordinarily English, if indeed it is for anyone at all.

Certainly, it is one of the most difficult reads I've ever completed. Had it not been THE book I had with me on the trip, I doubt very much that I would have continued past the first quarter of it. (Another argument in favor of an e-reader, I suppose. I could easily have switched to a different book.) Only because I'd returned to Denver being halfway done did I really feel the momentum to get to the end.

The book defies "readability" at almost every turn. The plot meanders at a snail's pace, interrupted regularly by the flights of fancy of an author in love with language more than storytelling. The flights of fancy are in turn interrupted by a flock of footnotes meant to lend historical authenticity to the made-up magical history, some of which are nearly mini-chapters unto themselves. Odd misspellings are used repeatedly throughout the book -- whether authentic English usage of the period, or an affectation assumed by the author, I could not say. In short, the book comes across deeply in love with itself, and not much interested in whether you love it.

Another flaw to my American sensibilities is that a major theme of the novel is "Englishness." Characters are often faced with what the proper English thing to do would be, whether one is being English enough, and so on. It doesn't come off as national pride -- no, that I think I would understand, as certainly my own country has more than a healthy portion of that. It's more a pervasive concern that manners are more important than... well, anything else. Including, in my view, telling an interesting story. Trim about 300 pages worth of fluff out of the book, and it does at times have an interesting plot. But even this culminates in a too-fast, too-easy letdown of an ending.

I've heard enthusiastic praise for this book in literary circles, but I suppose I am outside any such circle. I'd rate the book a D.