Neil Gaiman, in his review, called Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell the best work of English fantasy written in the past seventy years. While, not being a particularly devoted reader of fantasy, English or otherwise, I don’t have enough information to really judge whether his comment is true or not, it is, without a doubt, the most compelling epic fantasy I’ve ever read. It’s nearly 800 pages long and yet I read it in only two days; while this speaks very strongly to the amount of spare time I have in any given day, it also speaks very highly of the novel itself—its readability, its plot, and the amount of enjoyment it affords. (Hint: lots.)
JS&MN is a book about magic; more specifically, a book about the return of magic to England, set at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. It’s a reimagining of history, using real historical figures (like Lord Wellington, whose characterization here, while of possibly dubious accuracy, is highly entertaining) along with fictional characters, like the eponymous Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, the two magicians credited with the return of practical magic (as opposed to theoretical magic) to England, which was once, according to this novel’s vision of history, a land positively overrun with fairies, and, of course, magicians trying to make use of those fairies. The plot of the novel is, actually, fairly simple, following the ups and downs of the magical careers of the title characters. Although at first Strange becomes Mr. Norrell’s pupil, finally their different views on the purpose and proper application of magic (Mr. Norrell has a rather dry, academic approach, which limits the use of magic to those who have undergone the proper course of study, although Mr. Norrell’s innate reticence and, perhaps, selfishness causes him to store away all the useful magical tomes in his own private library. Mr. Norrell—and, throughout the book, he retains that very proper “Mr.” in his name—also decries the history of fairies and, most especially, the Raven King, the pregenitor of all English magic, as he tries to keep magic a regulated and, frankly, rather unexciting discipline. Strange, the younger and more vigorous of the two, wants to open magic up for all, believes in fairies and the Raven King, and, at great personal danger to himself and his loved ones—or perhaps just “one,” as I’m thinking primarily of his wife—begins to reinvestigate the realms of Faerie.
The real genius of this book, though, is not so much the plot or the characters, but the narrative voice. Since this is a reimagining of history, Susanna Clarke strives to make this, above all, a piece of historical fiction. The book’s tone is very nineteenth-century popular history: the narrator has a very dry, rather erudite humor—jokes about “’Tis Pity She’s a Corpse,” for instance, upon the death and later magical resurrection of Lady Walter, one of the main characters—which occasionally even satirizes its characters. (Lord Wellington, in particular, was one of my favorite victims of this narrative presentation. He’s just so...well, so British. Upon hearing a number of corpses, magically reanimated, speaking in the dialect of Hell, he comments that “’They have learnt it very quickly...They have only been dead three days.’” The narrator then adds that, “He approved of people doing things promptly and in a businesslike fashion.” So British, that.)
More impressive than the sense of humor, though, is the use of footnotes. Clarke, here, presents herself as a master scholar, in addition to creator, of her magical world. She includes, every few pages, footnotes explaining references to works of magic, and magical history, written in the Middle Ages, the grand flowering of magic in England. She writes footnotes explaining the political situation at the time, including whether Strange should be knighted for his service to his country during the Napoleonic wars in Spain. She footnotes obscure magicians whose dates of birth and death are debated. She footnotes the legends of Merlin. She footnotes the history of the Raven King, down to the scholarly debate that persisted for hundreds of years after his death. She footnotes certain aspects of the lives of her main characters, explaining how a later commentator or historian would know about such a private matter. (Strange wrote a number of works about himself and his life, in addition to his magical histories.) Her fictional world is quite unbelievably rich, both in actual happening and in backstory; and Clarke never fails to showcase this fact. Lest that sound irritating, though, rest assured that the footnotes share the same light, proper historical tone as the rest of the narrative, and, even, at times, indulge more in small, dry jokes than the actual text. In short, the footnotes are almost as much a pleasure to read as the story itself; it is a source of constant surprise and wonder to discover the story behind the story behind the story behind the story...you get the picture.
When I first picked this book up, after hearing that it was a story about magic in England, I mentally dismissed it, or at least prepared to summarize it, as “Harry Potter for Adults.” Now, after having read it, while I can see some similarities—um, England, magic—I have to admit, this book is so much more than that. Harry Potter never had such a sense of humor; Harry Potter never wrote quite so well—Clarke’s novel, while nearly 800 pages long, never felt overlengthy or in need of a good editor; and, most of all, while the magical world Harry Potter inhabits is admirably fleshed out, it’s got nothing on Clarke’s magical universe, which has been imagined, and, more impressively, researched, down to the tiniest detail, and she’s got the footnotes to prove it. It’s a rare novel that can keep the reader actively engaged for that many pages; it’s a rare novel that can tell a story, no matter how interesting, so compellingly, and it’s a rare novel, of course, that can use footnotes so brilliantly. If you’ve got the spare time—and for this novel, everyone must—I highly recommend it.
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