Robertson Davies, The Manticore

Some books are staggeringly brilliant, whether because of their esoteric subject matter, intricately conceived plots, mind-blowing vocabulary, or depth of (often obscure) knowledge; Umberto Eco, Vladimir Nabakov, and Thomas Pynchon come to mind. I had not even heard of the Canadian Robertson Davies until my dad gave me The Manticore for Christmas this year, having selected him from the list of 100 20th century authors who didn't make the Lifetime Reading Plan proper (a book I had given him several years ago).

I don't think I would call this novel staggeringly brilliant; because of its general accessibility, its brilliance is less overt, sneaking up on you slowly. It's there, though, particularly in its superb metacognition, which manages to avoid the perils of complete self-absorption.

In the loosest of definitions, the novel could be called a murder mystery, but it takes the form primarily of Jungian psychoanalysis. Perhaps surprisingly, the two complement each other very well in a careful balance, the plot driving the exploration of self and characters and vice versa. Because I am a sucker for explorations of the psyche--and had never encountered a similar book!--I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's part of a trilogy, and although it stood well alone, I may check out the other two books after working through the rest of my Christmas reading.