In 2004, a British writer named Susanna Clarke published a curious and magnificent book called “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.” It is about two quarreling magicians and, fittingly, it is a magical performance in its own right. Even the routine descriptions are memorable: “Spring returned to England. Birds followed ploughs. Stones were warmed by the sun. … Woods were tinged with a color so soft, so subtle that it could scarcely be said to be a color at all. It was more the idea of a color — as if the trees were dreaming green dreams or thinking green thoughts.”
This superb novel twists around your mind even when you’re not reading it, like a stripe on a barber pole. And as you near the end, you start to wonder if perhaps the book is scanning your e-mail or eavesdropping on your phone calls; it seems to know what you most fear and exploits that knowledge with a quiet, simpering glee. It is deliciously, diabolically creepy.
One can’t help but recall “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell” while reading “A Discovery of Witches” (Viking) by Deborah Harkness, a new novel about witches, vampires and assorted species. Both books aspire to create a plausible alternative universe featuring mythical creatures and their adventures. Both construct their own cosmology, history and genealogy. Both are long; drop either volume on a toe and prepare to let out a howl that would do a lurking werewolf proud.
And yet at the point at which the rubber meets the road — or the eye of newt plops into the boiling cauldron — “A Discovery of Witches” disappoints. It is inferior in multiple ways to previous books that have covered the same territory, from “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell” to the novels of Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, Neal Stephenson, Lev Grossman and J.K. Rowling. These novelists brilliantly — and humorously and luminously, too — concoct deeply satisfying sagas out of what used to be considered kid stuff: witches, zombies, monsters, mad scientists, demons, alchemists, vampires, wizards, the works. Their characters are rich and complex; their plots enthrall; their made-up landscapes feel exhilaratingly real.
Their work serves fair warning: If you’re going to write a fantasy these days, the bar is very, very high. This is no longer an arena in which you can get by with a mildly inventive plot and an extensive marketing campaign, both of which “A Discovery of Witches” sports.
The novel’s protagonist, a feisty historian named Diana Bishop, stumbles across an enchanted manuscript while working in Oxford’s Bodleian Library. She’s a witch, but prefers to use only her human powers (fans of the sitcom “Bewitched” will recognize the gambit) in her daily life. Soon, Diana has attached herself — scholastically as well as anatomically — to the dashing Matthew Clairmont, a fellow professor who also happens to be a vampire. Together they must solve the riddle of the mysterious manuscript, a quest that repeatedly puts them in harm’s way.
“A Discovery of Witches” has a number of promising moments, but they are swiftly overwhelmed by a relentless embrace of cliched writing and clumsy exposition. The occasional graceful passages, in fact, make the novel all the more frustrating, because they’re quickly succeeded by clunky ones.
Harkness is capable of this beautiful description of Diana’s growing passion for Matthew: “Somewhere, in the center of my soul, a rusty chain begins to unwind. It freed itself, link by link, from where it had rested unobserved, waiting for him. My hands, which had been balled up and pressed against his chest, unfurled with it. The chain continued to drop, to an unfathomable depth where there was nothing but darkness and Matthew. At last it snapped to its full length, anchoring me to a vampire.” Yet this is followed by pages of wooden dialogue and ho-hum description. Matthew, for instance, runs his fingers through his hair so many times that he’s surely a candidate for Rogaine.
“A little book can hold a big secret — one that might change the world,” says a character in “A Discovery of Witches.”
Indeed. But such a book first must be ingenious and furiously compelling, neither of which this one manages to be. Harkness’ novel — the first in a trilogy, the publisher warns — is like a witch whose flight is canceled on account of mechanical difficulties with her broomstick: The intention to soar is clearly present, but lack of other crucial elements — in this case, traditional literary attributes such as vivid language and originality — leave her grounded.