Why the story - which its narrator describes as a “time-novel” - is obsessed with the subject becomes painfully clear with more context. Hans’ struggles with time could not be more relatable in today’s climate. Time, which used to move quickly and uniformly, has become an unreliable barometer of development (“‘How long or short moves in actuality, no one knows’”). He laughs at his cousin’s warnings - “‘You wouldn’t believe how fast and loose they play with people’s time around here.’” - but becomes susceptible to the same disorientation the other patients experience. Mann’s reasoning is simple: Hans intended to make a quick trip, but he soon discovers he is unwell and becomes a patient himself. Their distribution is laughably uneven chapter four is well underway by page 100. They don’t correspond to years, as the first three chapters constitute only a few days. Take, for instance, the book’s seven chapters. How Mann proceeds, though, should intrigue quarantined readers. Aside from a brief detour to Hans’ childhood, the narration proceeds linearly, from his arrival to the “thunderbolt” that forces his departure. The Europe he knows disappears as he does, resulting in Hans’ return to an altogether different world. He intends to stay for three weeks but remains there for seven years. Hans Castorp, a young, clean-shaven man of privilege, visits his sick cousin Joachim at a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. All of these are perfectly fine reasons not to read this book.įor its daunting length, Mann’s story is not that complicated. The final nail in the coffin is the novel’s prewar setting, one that feels alien enough for many cultural references to go unheeded.

Most translations leave much to be desired: The New York Times’ lede that the characters are “considerably closer to speaking English” in one edition is a backhanded compliment of the highest order. At over 700 pages, it is thick, dense, and occasionally a slog. It gives a voice to those who are on uncertain terms with time itself.īy most accounts, the German Nobel Laurete’s novel is a difficult read. Right now, Thomas Mann’s “The Magic Mountain” is that art. It may be tempting to look backward to figure out how to feel during tumultuous periods, but art can more accurately reflect the true emotions of the past than a history textbook. Everything is happening around us, but so little of it happens to us. Life before Covid-19 feels like a century ago and yesterday at the same time.

The magic mountain mann