My Summer Book Report of Rank, Stinking
Defeat
The Magic Mountain, written by
German author Thomas Mann in 1924, is one of those books that always
lands on the “greatest books” lists, so as I have been trying to
broaden my grounding in the classics, I checked it out of the library
and had a go. It’s a hefty tome at 706 pages (at least in this
translation), but that didn’t scare me; I read pretty quickly—about
a page a minute—so that only meant fewer than twelve hours of
actual reading. Feeling cocky, I didn’t even get to it for the
first two weeks of the three-week checkout period because I was
finishing up other things.
Sometimes I read the author forewords
(yes, I’m that person), and Mann’s foreword was very witty and
engaging. I looked forward to diving right in, so I did.
Unfortunately, I dove back out repeatedly. It was all too easy to
keep putting this book down, and I can sum up the reason in one word:
digression. Before I explain that, let me just set up the story a
little: Mann’s novel concerns the experience of a young German man
named Hans Castorp, who takes a three-week holiday to visit his
cousin Joachim, who is staying as a patient in a sanitorium in
Switzerland. (Heh—okay, my Spell Check doesn’t like ‘sanitorium’
and wants me to write ‘sanitarium’. Tough nuts, Spell Check.
That’s what they were called.) Aaaaaanyway, almost immediately upon
arrival, Hans himself begins to suffer mysteriously from an
assortment of physical infirmities, even as he holds himself apart as
simply a vacationer among the real patients, whom he observes with a
critical, bemused eye.
Mann is, as I mentioned, a witty
writer, and he is an excellent hand at character development. The
protagonist, from whose perspective we experience the story, is
fully-fleshed (the third-person narrative allows us to share Hans’s
viewpoint while allowing the author to freely make asides about his
character to us) and the supporting characters are colorful and
intriguing. But then there’s the digression: frequently, the action
of the story is interrupted as we take a trip into Hans’s mind,
either witnessing as he internally toys with some idea or theory of
his, or as he experiences a memory from his childhood. These are not
off-putting at all, as they serve to add dimension to his character
and explanation for his actions and motivations, but they are an easy
point at which to exit the novel for a while (after all, we do
all have lives, I think).
So, it can be slow going. And I started
running out of time and renewing the book repeatedly. After all, I
had to read it; it was on my list! Alas, I finally had to give up
completely, and what did me in was, in one different word:
bloviation. Now there’s a word you don’t hear often (my Spell
Check just threw up its little electronic hands and stalked out of
the room), so I will provide a definition as I understand it: when
some long-winded cuss yammers on just to hear himself talk, or a
person with a pedantic streak lectures at great length about some
lofty concept using pretentious and obscure terminology, that’s
bloviation. Mann has a character, Settembrini, who is continually
guilty of the former, and I cringed inwardly whenever he made an
appearance on the page—I was only about a hundred pages in when,
in the middle of another one of Settembrini’s rants, I wondered why the
author found it necessary to subject me to this person and whether I
could handle much more.
But the final straw came about 20 pages
later, in the form of the other type of bloviation, when I was
treated to the actual text of the florid and baffling lecture
given by the sanitorium’s psychiatrist, Dr. Krokowski. This was the
point at which I experienced not mild irritation, but true despair.
The author himself was the perpetrator of all this! Was I to expect
the next five hundred pages to be miraculously free of any further
fits of lengthy punditry? I was not. So I admitted defeat, which was
especially bitter because after I snapped the book closed in disgust,
I noticed the words “Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature”
winking mockingly up at me from the cover. But frankly, I ain’t
gettin’ any younger, and there are plenty of other books out
there.
But what of Hans Castorp? Is he being
made sick on purpose? Much mention was made of people who didn’t
expect to stay long ending up there for years and even dying. Also,
the money-hungry nature of the industry was vilified at length
(by—you-guessed it—Settembrini). Was that foreshadowing as to
Hans’s fate? Why is the book called The Magic Mountain? Do
things get exceptionally weird and trippy? Despite all the
circumlocution, the story itself had enormously creepy potential. So,
I did something I have never, ever done before, as I consider it
cheating and spoiling: I turned to the end to see what happened.
And of course I will not spoil the book
for you, gentle reader, because you may have a higher tolerance for
bloviation. I should think you do, if you have reached the end of
this article. Cheers!
Other books I disliked, but at least read:
https://bucketofuseful.blogspot.com/2022/04/review-of-man-who-mistook-his-wife-for.html
https://bucketofuseful.blogspot.com/2022/05/a-review-of-boston-darkens-by-michael.html
Other books I read and liked:
https://bucketofuseful.blogspot.com/2025/12/book-review-ja-konraths-murder-mystery.html
https://bucketofuseful.blogspot.com/2023/08/review-of-king-in-tree-by-steven.html
https://bucketofuseful.blogspot.com/2022/05/review-of-your-head-is-houseboat-by.html