I own a book called The Magus by John Fowles. It came into my hands in an unusual way. The library was giving away a sad-looking collection of books that hadn’t sold at the last book sale. I don’t know what possessed me to pick up this large, jacketless, water-stained book that I had never heard of and that no one else wanted. Maybe the word “free” worked some magic on me and made me bring the book home.
Since then, I have attempted to read it a couple of times. I always love it in the beginning, but there is a spot where the mystery becomes more irritating than interesting. It is there that I put the book down, thinking that I’ll just take a few days off, and forget to pick it up again for months. I would have thrown it away long ago, but The Magus appears often on reading lists, and I wonder what great things might lie beyond the point that I can’t seem to pass.
Now, in the middle of the Great Library Purge, the The Magus has one final chance to prove itself. I started reading it again a few days ago. I hit the Irritation Point last night at page 224. With close to 400 pages remaining, it would be a good time to cut and run, but I have decided to read another 100 pages. If I’m not having fun by page 324, then the book goes to the Chopping Block, end of story, and no one will be able to say that I didn’t give it a fair chance.