The Magician

The novel unfolds from Thomas’s close third-person perspective, immersing readers in his state of mind. At the same time, Tóibín’s measured, cool narrative voice creates the distance to view Thomas objectively. Even though the narration is entirely from Thomas’s point of view, his observations and memories bring other characters to life. For instance, the novel’s opening passage vividly portrays Julia as a woman too large-spirited for Lübeck’s stuffier people. When she joins her salons, Thomas notes her “air of reluctance, giving the impression that she had, just now, been alone with herself in a place more interesting than festive Lübeck” (1). Tóibín chooses a linear narrative chronology, systematically covering the major events of Thomas’s life. This structured approach enables the novelist to dwell on the growth in Thomas’s artistic process over the years and to show how he sometimes fuses unrelated real-life experiences spontaneously in his art. For example, Thomas’s visit to the Nile mosaic, his childhood experiences, and his loss of Lübeck flow into each other, becoming the plot of Buddenbrooks. Tóibín plays with time through flashbacks and by withholding information only to circle back to it.

The first three chapters paint a detailed portrait of Lübeck’s society and culture at the end of the 19th century and show how these conditions influenced Thomas’s psyche and his decisions. The picture of Lübeck that emerges is of a conservative, patriarchal society that values an understated, stoic manner. Thus, when Julia dresses in elaborate hats and greets people effusively on her way to church, scandalized neighbors conclude, “She is showy and silly, and that is the mark of a Catholic” (4). The senator’s patriarchal control over Julia and his children persists even from beyond the grave, as is apparent through the conditions of his will. His directive that male guardians must approve Julia’s financial and parental decisions show that the senator didn’t trust her. However, such views weren’t limited to the senator or uncommon in the novel’s historical milieu.

Thomas’s conformist streak stems from practical realities. He knows that he owes his place in the world largely to the values his father represented and thus can’t disregard them. The terms of the senator’s will indeed end in a physical dispersal for the Manns, and Thomas is acutely aware that his father’s death and move from Lübeck mean that “[n]o matter where he [goes], he [will] never be important again” (20). Thomas’s sense of exile introduces the theme of Identity Amid Displacement. Since Thomas’s sense of identity links to his belief in tradition and culture, every move further from Lübeck makes him feel abandoned, until he learns that identity isn’t a monolith but an amalgamation.

Another prominent theme that emerges in this section is The Complex Relationship Between Sexuality, Self, and Family. Thomas is attracted to men, yet aware that the attraction is socially unacceptable. More importantly, he believes that acting on the attraction clashes with his sense of self. After the encounter with Hunehmann, Thomas “[feels] the deep revulsion he should have felt as soon as Hunehmann had made his intentions plain” (66). The episode leaves him unsettled about his future until his mind seizes on the dream of marrying Katia. Once he envisions a life with Katia, he “[feels] a new sort of contentment” (66), since being married to Katia fits better with Thomas’s sense of self and the importance of family, security, and social standing in his life.

Though Tóibín makes a creative choice to show Thomas’s sexual experiences with boys and men, critics such as Alex Ross have noted the limited evidence that the real Thomas Mann’s interest in men ever progressed beyond emotional intimacy and looking. Ross notes in his article that Thomas wouldn’t have self-identified as gay in the contemporary sense of the word (Ross, Alex. “Thomas Mann’s Brush with Darkness.” The New Yorker, 17 January 2022). In addition, though same-gender attraction was stigmatized in the early 20th century, it occurred in bohemian circles. In the novel, both Klaus Pringsheim and Paul Ehrenberg suggest that Thomas is bisexual. Thomas’s choice of an outwardly heteronormative lifestyle is thus not just a function of his time in history; it’s also informed by his self-image and his family values.

Since the novel presents Thomas as a traditionalist, his vision of an ideal family is socially and culturally legitimate. For Thomas, Katia’s appeal links to her family’s societal status: The Pringsheims “[w]ere the sort of people he wanted to be” (59). The reason Carla draws Thomas’s attention to the Pringsheims is that, as a boy, he cut out their painting from a magazine and pasted it over his desk because it symbolized the better, more beautiful life to which he aspired.

Tóibín highlights the role of opposing forces in Thomas’s life, from the tension between his same-sex attraction and his desire for a heteronormative lifestyle to the contrast between his mother’s liberalism and his father’s conservatism. The greatest symbol of this oppositional framework is Thomas and Heinrich’s relationship. Though Thomas frequently feels betrayed by Heinrich, who often patronizes his younger brother, he also seeks Heinrich’s approval. From Thomas and Heinrich’s opposing stances on a novel’s ideal subject matter emerges another theme: The Role of the Artist in Society. While Heinrich believes that a novel “[s]hould not deal so obsessively with private life” (57) as Buddenbrooks, Thomas suggests that private life is, in fact, the best window into the political. Ironically, while Heinrich’s politics may be more radical, Thomas’s views on art and writing are more trailblazing. His focus on his characters’ internal life and psychology is an early example of Modernist techniques and the use of the stream-of-consciousness style in the German novel.