The Magician - Colm Toibin (2021)

Over thirteen years ago, Flying Houses began with a review of Doctor Faustus, I have often lamented that few readers today are aware of Thomas Mann. Now, with the publication of The Magician, we can expect all sorts of Mann propaganda to enter the cultural conversation. After this release, I would not be surprised to see an increase in the sales of Buddenbrooks, Death in Venice, The Magic Mountain, or Doctor Faustus. Nor would I surprised if the estate entered into an agreement with xx streaming provider for adaptations of those books. I would be least surprised of all, however, to see a film adaptation of The Magician. This is because the novel is by Colm Toibin, the author of Brooklyn, which was made into a very successful film. But moreover, the story of the life of Thomas Mann should be catnip to anyone involved in the business of making and buying and selling shows. Because his was an epic life. And the LGBTQ angle is very hot right now.

Perhaps it is best for us to start there. Now, I knew various autobiographical details about Mann, insofar as I had read (some) of his books and did not skip past the introductions and glanced over his Wikipedia page a few times. His appearance near the beginning of Sontag was a surprise, but I knew he had lived in Pacific Palisades near the end of his life, and had lived to about 80. I knew that he likely, to one degree or another, was closeted--but closeted-bi, as opposed to closeted-gay. In Toibin's version of his life, he is closeted-gay, and maybe I don't want to think of him that way. Is it wrong to say this cheapens his work? Perhaps, and true, Toibin does focus the majority of the novel on politics and family, rather than sexual frenzy, but a few times in the text, I was embarrassed to read what Toibin imagined. Sometimes, we don't want our heroes to be "mortalized." 

Now then, one should not doubt Toibin's understanding of Mann's work. He acknowledges 34 books that assisted in the writing of this novel--though to be fair, a number of them are about Schoenberg, Mahler, his wife (Alma, who is depicted as a camp figure here, I think), Mann's children, and other famous figures (i.e. Franklin D. Roosevelt). And true, the most salacious material in this book is probably lifted straight from his diaries, but therein lie sometimes troubling revelations about the inner life of the artist. 

Take, for example, a paragraph that I read to a friend, who immediately responded by saying, "ban it": 

"As a youth, his eldest son had struck him as being especially beautiful. Once, on coming into the bedroom that Klaus shared with Golo, he had found Klaus naked. The image had remained with him, enough for him to record in his diary how strangely attractive he found his son.
There must have been, he thought, a few more times when he wrote in his diary about the allure of Klaus's body, or how aroused he was by the appearance of Klaus in a swimsuit.
These were thoughts that not many fathers must have felt, he imagined. He was sure that he could not be completely alone but he was aware that the few other fathers, perhaps very few, who found their son sexually attractive had not been foolish enough to share what they were feeling. He himself, of course, had told no one, and he was certain that neither Klaus nor any other member of the family had the slightest idea what was going on in his mind.
Instead, he had noted it all in his diary. Now, somewhere in Germany, it was possible that those pages were being examined by people who had every reason to want to wreck his reputation." (211)

While philosophical discussions about cancelling artists and banning books and burning books may be had in the hundreds of book clubs that will select The Magician as their next item, it seems evident that Toibin is not interested in wrecking Mann's reputation. That said, what comes immediately after is something Mann is even more worried about coming to light from the diaries (with another Klaus--not his son, or brother-in-law)--and frankly, the "incident" is one of the more beautiful sections of the book; it seems disingenuous that he would worry more about the latter Klaus than the former Klaus. That is, at a few points in the novel he develops certain crushes, sometimes on those that are familiar with his work and see him as some sort of god-like being. There is no real consummation, apart from one scene earlier in the novel, which is also depicted in a very passive and euphemistic tone; in this later instance, it ends in a kiss and nothing more. 

A side note: the book is called The Magician because this is the pet name his family gives to him. His children do not call him Daddy, Dad or even Father much of the time; they refer to him as the Magician. An incredible opportunity to depict the writing of his excellent short story "Mario and the Magician" is missed. And this is one of the few criticisms I have of this novel: short shrift is given to his work, apart from Buddenbrooks, Venice, Magic Mountain, and Faustus. Toibin gives fair due to these four--especially the first and last--and there is some reference to "Reflections of a Non-Political Man" and Disorder and Early Sorrow, and it does end with Felix Krull, but there are about three or four sentences (if that!) which reference Joseph and His Brothers. This seems insane. I have no idea how long it took him to write those four books, why he felt such a strong urge to do them, and how he felt about them afterwards. One imagines that Toibin must have read it in order to write this book, but six years ago at least, he hadn't, and was ashamed. Some of the early short stories merit brief mention (including a scene ripped straight out of "Tonio Kroger"), but not Joseph and not The Holy Sinner, either, nor Royal Highness, nor Lotte in Weimar. Perhaps including all of his works would be tedious and turn this novel into a bibliography, but considering the precision of detail--really the chief virtue and flaw of it all--I do not think it would be unwelcome to readers. 

Because while there is plenty about the "life of the writer" in here (for example, his daily routine, only really writing in the mornings), this book is more about the Magician's family than the Magician himself. I can list his children off the top of my head after reading this now: Klaus, Erika, Golo, Monika, Elisabeth, and Michael. There is also his older brother Heinrich, his wife Mimi, their child Gotschi, his second wife Nelly (one of the more memorable portraits), and the various spouses of his children, the grandchildren, etc. But above everyone else is his wife, Katia. There is a lot of dialogue in this book (it is not a breezy 500 pages, but many sections do go quickly) and most of the time, Katia dominates that aspect.

Katia comes from a bohemian family, part Jewish, and has a twin brother named Klaus. Mann supposedly took the relationship between Katia and Klaus as inspiration for his short story "The Blood of the Walsungs." Katia and Klaus seem to enjoy "playing" with Thomas and subtly acknowledging that he seems more attracted to her brother than her. This could be humiliating and awkward, but instead they fall into a sort of love that is far from idyllic, but very beautiful in its own way. What they lack in passion for one another, they make up for with real partnership and love, keeping the family together as well as they can through war-torn Germany. Katia later explains that her father was a philanderer, and so she likes Thomas because she does not have to worry about him looking at other women. If one knew nothing about her, Katia might be regarded as a sort of tragic figure, a helpless trophy wife, ignorant of her husband's real desires, but by the end of the novel it is clear that she is the strongest person in the family. 

It is only here that I want to pause for a moment and note another criticism: it is hard to tell how much Toibin is extrapolating or making up or fictionalizing. Certainly, these are complex human beings, and the tidy encapsulation of their "arrangement" seems a little too simple. Regardless, the family is very liberal in this regard, particularly when his son Klaus is gay, his daughter Erika is a lesbian (and marries twice--the second time to W.H. Auden, also gay), and correct me if I am wrong but Golo, too (mentioned in maybe two sentences)? 

There are also the suicides, and here we find one glaring aspect of the novel: earth-shattering events are tossed off casually. Most glaringly, this happens early in the novel, when not one but two of Thomas's sisters take their own lives. Several other people die in this way, and each time, it is almost as if Toibin does not want us to care. It is almost comical. 

"Soon Heinrich told them that Lula had been seen following this man in the street, or entering cafes and restaurants checking if he was at one of the tables, and then sitting alone in a state of despondency as she gave his name and insisted that she would wait for him. 
And then the news broke that Lula had taken her own life. When Heinrich arrived at the house to tell Thomas and Katia, she and Golo immediately went to comfort Lula's daughters, but Heinrich and Thomas stayed behind, finding refuge in Thomas's study.
Heinrich reminded him of the nights when their mother would tell them about her childhood in Brazil.
'Can you imagine on one of those nights if someone had come into the room and told our two sisters how they would die?' Thomas asked.
'When Carla went,' Heinrich continued, 'part of me followed her. And now Lula. Soon we will all be gone.'" (191)

There is more of a cold objectivity to this novel that perhaps kept me from getting too invested in it--Mann may have had an epic life, but it was also rather boring in the domestic sense, in that there are not many fights, and nothing to bother him very much except fearing discovery of the diaries: all drama in the story is subsumed by his children. Perhaps too often, the novel feels more like a recitation of events than a deeper investigation into the artist's psyche or motives (we do learn that his baby grandson Frido is the inspiration for the baby nephew Echo in Faustus, and that it seemed to bother his family, which seems sort of insane--except for the fate he gives Echo). The novel is at its best when it is focused on the smaller world of the author's mind, rather than the Mann family, or the fate of the German people. There are just very many people in his life, and it seems that they keep him rather busy, apart from his solitary morning hours in his study. He is only interrupted perhaps three times in the novel, and it really only bothers him once.

If you are interested in learning about Thomas Mann, one of the biographies in the acknowledgments may serve you better (of course, reading his work itself will be the best primer). If you are interested in learning about his family, however, then you will probably enjoy this. If you are a very successful writer managing a large and tumultuous family, it should be particularly meaningful to you. However, very, very few writers today (perhaps Salman Rushdie, 20 years ago) need to deal with political drama, or serving as patriarchs or family scions. Mann worked in the era of the Famous Writer, when cinema was in its infancy and actors had not yet captured the popular imagination, and his status as a German winner of the most prestigious literary prize sets him far enough apart that readers may not empathize with him, since most characters (save his children) are obsequious with him; he is rarely challenged after he publishes Buddenbrooks. 

So in that sense, the earlier parts of the novel are most interesting, and unfortunately they feel rushed. The years 1875-1930 are covered in the first 200 pages; 1930-1955 consumes 300 pages. The framing of the novel, as a family drama, posits the escape from Germany as the most significant event in their lives. Monika in particular suffers the most crushing loss, and her PTSD is regarded as almost histrionic. Golo is probably the most interesting character in the novel because he seems like such an afterthought, but he really does more to serve as the "glue" of the family than anyone else. It feels like he is underappreciated, vaguely neglected, and so when he calls out his family about the way they have been treating Heinrich's second wife, Nelly, it is one of the most moving passages of the book:

"'It is appalling,' Golo said, 'that we had to be in Alma's company last night. On that journey over the Pyrenees, Nelly could not have been more kind and more careful. She loves Heinrich, she really does, and she made that obvious all the time. She even helped me to lift him and at times carry him when he was too weak to go on. She was so sweet to him. As we rested, she reassured him. She is a most graceful, tender person. On the journey by ship as my uncle lay in his cabin making drawings of women [a certain recurring theme in the novel is Heinrich's pastime of doodling nude women], Nelly told me that he had actually left her behind when he fled from Berlin to France. He left her to take money from his bank account and settle his affairs, all of which put her in grave danger. She was even arrested at one point and was lucky to escape. Alma, in the meantime, was still worried about her luggage. Varian Fry crossed the border with some of it, which she then sent separately to New York from Barcelona. Varian was infinitely patient with her on the luggage question, as he was wise all the time in how he saved us. In the future, the world should know what he did, just how brave he was. But now, here in this house, I insist that what Nelly did should also be understood and her warm heart suitably appreciated. I do not want her being called a trollop or a slattern or any other word. She is a good woman. I want that to be known. Yes, she was a barmaid, and I trust that, since we are in exile now, we have not brought with us the snobbery that so maimed our lives when we lived in Munich.'" (344)

There are not many other moments like this. Erika and Klaus call out Thomas at various moments for his timid political stance. At one point, Michael calls out Thomas and Katia for being too cold and distant as parents, for showing them only conditional love. I have never enjoyed when people tell me that my writing does too much "telling" and not enough "showing," but this is part of the reason why Golo's displeasure feels earned, while Erika/Klaus/Michael's does not. 

This should have been one of my favorite novels of the year; I was very excited to read it. There is certainly much to admire in it, yet I really only felt touched by about 20% of it, perhaps 100 pages that I read very quickly (note: I read pp. 350-420 by taking photos on my phone of each page and reading them in line at Great America--these went quickly because few things are more boring than standing in line for 2 hours for Superman or Raging Bull). Ultimately, Toibin's subject matter is very rich, but this feels like something of a disappointing sequel to The Master, which is apparently a very similar type of book about Henry James that earned high praise. Credit Toibin for sort of creating this "genre" (I am sure that similar books have been written, but I am not familiar with them) and for taking on as towering a figure as Mann. This wouldn't have been an easy book for anyone to write. If it had more emotion, I might have liked it more.

Grade: B+