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There's something about writers writing about writers that fails to spark. Slightly more successful than writers writing about composers, but it's a close call.

The Magician is a novelisation of the life of Thomas Mann. I suspect that Thomas was a Mann of his times - famous in Weimar Germany, awarded by the Nobel Committee, feted in America during the war, and his works were apparently purchased in such quantity to make him hugely rich. He rubs shoulders with the great and the good; on the Rooseveldts' guest list, feuding with composers, and touted as a future President of a post-war Germany. And for all that, he seems to live on in name only. I'm not sure that anyone (at least in the anglophone world) still reads his works. 

So we have a story of the writer set against a backdrop of world politics. The plight of the family - a large family with Jewish connections and more than the standard 10% quota of homosexuality - trying to maintain their ruling class entitlement as the order crumbles around them. The writing flows well, but the events are more interesting than its witnesses. Mann himself is portrayed as a fence-sitter, unwilling to condemn Naziism for fear of personal reprisals while seeking sanctuary overseas. But this is perhaps an unfair portrayal. Mann was actually quite vocal in his condemnation of fascism and (I understand) quite overt in his themes of homosexuality in his writing. This, with the consequence of making him a target of the McCarthyites. But this really feels glossed over in favour of a conveyor belt of little dramas brought by his many children, siblings and acquaintances. 

The pacing of The Magician is odd. The pacing is led by family events, leaving matters like the war to slip by almost unnoticed while other world events that coincided with family drama are unfolded very slowly over many pages. That might have felt more natural if Thomas Mann had been portrayed as a more swash-buckling character but as it was, it felt as though we were focusing somewhat on the side-show. 

Colm Toibin has a gentle narrative style, and nothing jars. At a sentence level this makes for a pleasant read. I just can't help feeling that the style lends itself more to ordinary folk (and judges) on the east coast of Ireland, exploring their feelings, rather than following major historical figures and world events. I preferred this to The Master, but how I'd like to go back to the The Blackwater Lightship. 



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Not sure I'll give this a go, I tried to read The Magic Mountain years ago and just couldn't stick with it. It's still on the shelf so perhaps in future I'll give it another go and if successful come back to this. 

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