"Unquestionably the finest English novel of the fantastic written in the last seventy years." So sayeth Neil Gaiman, the only currently-living fantasy author who is both a very famous celebrity and whose opinion I respect. All this adds up to unquestionably the finest English dust jacket quote of the fantastic written since who-knows-when, but what book is he describing? (The rhetorical question works better if you forget the title for a moment.) Everything written by Tolkien makes the cut, as do The Chronicles of Narnia. J. K. Rowling and Terry Pratchett are accounted for, as is T. H. White.
Now forget everything you know about fantasy. I find myself agreeing completely with Gaiman's quote, because the only two books I'd rank with it (Lord Foul's Bane and possibly The Last Unicorn) are American. I present Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell.
In the early 1800s, magicians still populate England. Unfortunately, magic itself has passed them by; the profession is populated by little more than street performers and stuffy scholars. One day, offended by the presumption done in the name of his craft, the stuffy old Mr Norrell decides to reveal to the world that he is the most powerful (that is, only) magician alive. He demonstrates his prowess by raising a young London lady from the dead, keeping it a secret that this particular miracle has come from a bargain with an ancient, powerful fairy king who then considers himself loosed upon London. Anxious both to secure his newly garnered respect and to keep any more unstable magic from threatening the people of England, Norrell sets out to collect any magical knowledge for himself and hide it away... until Jonathan Strange discovers a talent for magic that may surpass that of Norrell. Norrell takes the audacious young gentleman as his first and only pupil. Together, Strange and Norrell span an English cultural revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, and a malevolent magical presence as they try to determine whether Norrell's bookish caution or Strange's stylish confidence will set the standard for the re-emergence of English magic.
The first thing to notice about this book is its complete devotion to the setting. The entire story is written in the style of early 1800's English romances, complete with alternate spellings like "chuse" and "surprize." Then comes the fact that Clarke's legendarium may surpass the size even of Tolkien's if you consider all the real-world references she weaves into the narrative. Not only is there a tremendous amount of fictional secondary material (she uses footnotes dozens of Mr Norrell's private books), but she also draws on figures of the time period. It takes a history lesson to tell some of them apart. My favorite is the intrusion of Lord Byron, who alternately bickers with Jonathan Strange and fuels Strange's melodramatic tendencies.
Now, since this is a blog interested in fantasy, magic ought to be an important focus. Magic is represented differently by every author, but there are several broad categories out there. Some authors (I'm lookin' at you, R. A. Salvatore) portray magic as a powerful weapon with no repercussions, and suddenly everybody is shooting energy blasts like super soakers. Others express the multi-functionality of magic, not just as a weapon, but as a tool for any aspect of life. Frequently these authors try to express the dangers of magic by linking it to the energy of the magician's body; that is, a character who does magic undergoes the physical strain as though he had done it by hand. Christopher Paolini's Eragon is a popular example of this. Personally, I find that this takes the magic out of magic. Nothing as mysterious and compelling as a fairy tale should be governed by such a bland, self-interested weighing of ends and risks.
Compare this to Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. Those two magicians can do nearly anything. At one point, Strange moves a city (a Dutch one, I think) to the modern-day Dakotas, picking up a handful of cowboys and Indians along the way. In her Austenian deadpan, Clarke quips that this is very inconvenient for the city's inhabitants unless Strange can put it where he found it, but it turns out that this is the whole point. Magic is not instructive if it's just a tool we've mastered already. It's the act of turning over stones, not knowing what might escape from under them. It's the act of opening doors to see what's behind them. Nobody, not even Clarke, captures it better than Peter Beagle when he has Schmendrick cry, "Magic, do as you will!" Only then do we realize that the world spins in ways the keenest instruments cannot meaningfully describe.
This is the heart of Strange and Norrell's quarrels. Norrell gets all his learning from books, yet he turns out to be a prodigious magician. He loves magic and himself enough to offer his services to his country, but this is primarily to gain respect and fear not only for himself, but for his craft. He then spends the rest of the book trying to stop anyone else from doing magic, no matter what or where. But the gentleman with the thistledown hair – that's our fairy villain – is already loose in London. The door has been opened, and the consequences are more than personal. On the other hand, Strange advocates active learning by as many people as possible, yet his audacity is no safer than Mr Norrell's caution, as certain casualties come to show. The resulting calamities resolve the way all calamities resolve: life goes on for some.
I love all of the characters in this book, including the ones I hate. Both the scoundrels and the gentlemen, most of whom overlap, are portrayed with powerfully realistic strokes. Both women and men are given complex, characteristic stories. They weave together in a masterful dance that combines poetic justice with the footsteps of real life. It's fitting, because these are the genes of magic.
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