This one will be quick since it vaguely has something to do with children’s lit.
I just finished reading Grossman’s The Magicians. It’s being marketed as an adult fantasy novel about a college student trying to fit into the world (in this case, worlds), deconstructing illusions, and drinking…a lot. That kind of sounds like a fun read, right?
What made it even more fun was that it felt like it was written for the fantasy lovers of my generation. In the first 100 chapters it had made allusions to many of my favorite fantasy novels, from A Wrinkle in Time, to Tolkien, to Harry Potter. Sometimes it was a respectful nod and other times it was a hilarious quip pointing out the ridiculousness that is allowed to go on in fantasy worlds.
This was all well and good until I realized that the book didn’t have much to offer after halfway through. The overall conceit of the novel is easily and quickly unearthed and the sense of adventure it strives for falls flat. It did not call my name from my bedside table or demand me to enter its worlds through wardrobes or clock faces.