by Jonathan Bartholomew
In 2003, I was 21 years old. It was my fourth year of college, and because of the fact that I spent my first year and a half of college learning how to follow a school schedule (when I was in 6th grade, my parents took my brothers and I out of public school to be ‘home schooled,’ which I’m sure will come up in subsequent post, but I bring it up here to say in the 6 years after that, my ability to follow a class attendance schedule was obliterated), I still had a year of classes ahead of me before I would graduate. In what ‘should’ (at least by the standards of the school I was attending) have been my final semester, there was offered a Senior Seminar class, which was required to graduate. The following year was not projected to have any Literature graduates besides me (small college), and it was the last semester two teachers I loved would be teaching there (the school was becoming an evangelical nightmare – the writing had been on the wall for a few years by that point. As an aside, I’m even embarrassed to tell people where I went to college at this point, though probably only people from the region are likely to even know what it is) so I took the class. Taught by the 4 Lit professors of the school, with each taking over the class for a quarter of the semester, it was a shotgun blast of topics. Teacher 1 got her only chance at that school to teach Literary Criticism, (where I learned skills in evaluating writing that I use even today). Teacher 2 took us through some Yeats. It was enjoyable, but I frankly don’t remember it at all. Teacher 3, I had avoided at all costs throughout my time in college. He had told me, in a class of 15 students (which is a lot at that school for a 3000-level Lit course) that he seriously disliked me, thought I was an idiot, and didn’t deserve to be considered for a degree. There was no outward reason for that, he just stopped mid-lecture one day to let me know. It was fairly surreal, and I laughed about it. I still laugh about it. He spent his quarter of the semester lecturing about how much Paradise Lost shows the triumph over good an evil, and the characterization of Lucifer as the personification of evil. Ask me if I take that interpretation. I don’t know that he ever had a correct viewpoint on a work of literature in all the time I knew him. The fourth teacher was the one I was really looking forward to. He was leaving the college very soon after that semester, and knew it. He had been the one to convince me that Literature was the way to go, for me (for better or for worse, haha) and was, frankly, the best teacher I ever had. He taught us two novels. Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis, and The Magus by John Fowles.
The Magus was what I was most looking forward to. The professor had said it was about magic, and the world, and perception. I was coming to terms with the failures of mainstream religion, the likely fact that there was no god, and not having a clue how to go forward once I was out of school – something that was very fast approaching on the horizon. I interpreted his assertion as it being a science fiction book of some kind, and expected science fiction themes, with maybe some internal questioning of existence along the way.
That is not what The Magus was. I figured that out about 30 pages in. A hundred pages in, I realized it was going to be something I’d appreciate at a later part of my life – there have been a few pieces of art, of one kind or another, that I’ve instinctively known that about. 200 pages or so in, I threw the book against the wall. I’d not done that before and have not since. When I finished it, I got a very real glimpse at the fact that I actually didn’t know anything about anything at all. About reality, thought, perception, or anything else. I, at that point, sincerely hated the thing, and simultaneously felt it was one of the most important things I’ve ever read. I hated (and still hate) how the main character looks at women (both as a gender, and individual players in his life), and how he treats others. But, I think we’re supposed to hate that. I’ve spent the past 20 years thinking about that book. I’ve suggested it to multiple other people as an important book to read, without really even being able to adequately explain why.
What’s even more interesting is that, after reading it, I talked to my teacher about it, and asked him why he told me it was about magic, when in fact it was not. I was a bit hesitant about doing this, as I thought he might get angry or annoyed with me. He did not. He laughed, shook his head, and said, “It isn’t?”
The paper I wrote about that book was the longest, most researched paper of my college career. It was also the thing I am equally most proud of, and most convinced was incorrect.
Today (this writing is taking place on Jan 8, 2024) I began to read it again. About 30 pages in, I realized I still don’t really know anything. I’ve got a feeling that at the end of this reading, I’m going to be convinced that it is, in fact, a book about magic. Actually, the first few pages already showed me that it is. No promises, regarding throwing the thing against the wall a few times this go-around, though.
To be continued at a later date….