I’m not sure where to start with The Magic Mountain. It took me a long time to read, and I took a couple of weeks off for an intermission, when I felt myself resenting having to read it every day. I finally picked it up because someone gave me The Empusium as a gift, and there’s a connection between the two books (more to come on that).
It’s the story of Hans Castorp, a young German man who goes to visit his cousin at a sanatorium in the Alps, and winds up sticking around for seven years. That’s essentially the whole plot: the book is famously a ‘novel of ideas’ rather than plot or character.
Is it good? Did I like it? Would I recommend it? That’s complicated.
I like Thomas Mann a lot – Buddenbrooks is an all-time favourite. Death In Venice and Other Stories was more hit than miss, and the hits were generally big ones.
The Magic Mountain had long stretches of brilliance, there were deep examinations of human relationships that were gorgeously written. The relationship between Castorp and Clavdia Chauchat is something I would read a thousand pages of.
There were also long stretches of ideas and dialogue that I had to force myself through – philosophical debates (primarily between Settembrini and Naphta), often interesting ideas padded with so much throat-clearing that they’re almost unbearable.
A book should be evaluated in the context of its time, for course, and as a novel that was published in the lead up to WWI, there is a lot to be drawn in by. The dialogue is generally compelling, the setting and characters are engrossing and memorable.
But I will remember the book as a slog with unforgettable sections, rather than a brilliant book with rough parts, as I remember books like Buddenbrooks and Middlemarch.
Further Reading
“The Magic Mountain Saved My Life” by George Packer in the Atlantic (archive)
