The relationship between murder and magic gets a fresh twist in "Magic for Liars¸" Sarah Gailey’s debut novel—which has its book birthday today, on June 4th, with To as publisher. With its bright cover and eye-catching design (literally as well as figuratively!) this is a book that emotes. Gailey previously released the American Hippo duology (made up of "River of Teeth" and "Taste of Marrow") as well as the Fireside/Serial Box production, "Fisher of Bones," demonstrating a deft hand in navigating weighty content with empathy and skill.
It is no surprise, then, that "Magic for Liars" raises that bar yet again in offering readers certain familiar tropes—the tortured antihero private investigator, the femme fatale, and the obsessive teen, just to name a few—and nestling them within the recognizable voice of noir fiction as well as the lush campus of a school for magical teens. Readers are offered a choice: Read the book one way, and all the tropes fall in line, one after the other, leading to a satisfying and thoroughly noir denouement worthy of the torchbearers of that genre. Read the book another way, and you suddenly discover that magic isn’t just a thing certain people can do, but the inexplicable thing which binds us to each other in magnetic relationships that either repel or attract—or manage to do both at once.
As in all dualities, these two ways of reading are not truly opposed; they are complementary. They coexist. They will always coexist. And in so doing, they will torment us forever, in ways that will either continuously deconstruct or continuously reconstruct our identities and our ability to connect to each other.
"Magic for Liars" chews on identity as a product of self-invention, and reinvention. Characters, both magical and non-magical, work hard to perfect their performance of self, and they wear those performances like armor. Teens adrift in the melee of emotional demands that make up the transition into adulthood add highlights to their hair, and an extra sparkle to their eyes, because if they can only just pretend to be perfect long enough, maybe the worst that the world can throw at them—murder and worse—will just slide right off and leave no smudges on the futures they hope so desperately are still waiting for them outside the school’s walls. Adults add those same highlights and sparkles because they know those smudges are permanent, and they might as well look untouchable even though they’re very much … not.
Everyone is touchable when it comes to trauma, as Gailey makes plain. No matter how thick one’s armor, the world gets in. Family gets in. And it’s only through willingly making oneself open to the feelings and needs and predations and loves of others that one can find a path through. That one can construct an identity—queer, straight, magic-user, sister, murderer—that fits. Magic doesn’t change that. Magic *is* that.
"Magic for Liars" cuts deep. But it’s not the kind of noir fantasy that privileges the titillation of crime over the depth and nuance and many-layered innocences of its characters. It’s a book of discovery, and connection, and a conversation about what is at the rock-bottom of human nature. Is it love? Is it fear? Is it the ability to hurt or harmonize with others? Gailey gets pain. They get that pain resides not just in the mind, but in the marrow.
It is no surprise, then, that "Magic for Liars" raises that bar yet again in offering readers certain familiar tropes—the tortured antihero private investigator, the femme fatale, and the obsessive teen, just to name a few—and nestling them within the recognizable voice of noir fiction as well as the lush campus of a school for magical teens. Readers are offered a choice: Read the book one way, and all the tropes fall in line, one after the other, leading to a satisfying and thoroughly noir denouement worthy of the torchbearers of that genre. Read the book another way, and you suddenly discover that magic isn’t just a thing certain people can do, but the inexplicable thing which binds us to each other in magnetic relationships that either repel or attract—or manage to do both at once.
As in all dualities, these two ways of reading are not truly opposed; they are complementary. They coexist. They will always coexist. And in so doing, they will torment us forever, in ways that will either continuously deconstruct or continuously reconstruct our identities and our ability to connect to each other.
"Magic for Liars" chews on identity as a product of self-invention, and reinvention. Characters, both magical and non-magical, work hard to perfect their performance of self, and they wear those performances like armor. Teens adrift in the melee of emotional demands that make up the transition into adulthood add highlights to their hair, and an extra sparkle to their eyes, because if they can only just pretend to be perfect long enough, maybe the worst that the world can throw at them—murder and worse—will just slide right off and leave no smudges on the futures they hope so desperately are still waiting for them outside the school’s walls. Adults add those same highlights and sparkles because they know those smudges are permanent, and they might as well look untouchable even though they’re very much … not.
Everyone is touchable when it comes to trauma, as Gailey makes plain. No matter how thick one’s armor, the world gets in. Family gets in. And it’s only through willingly making oneself open to the feelings and needs and predations and loves of others that one can find a path through. That one can construct an identity—queer, straight, magic-user, sister, murderer—that fits. Magic doesn’t change that. Magic *is* that.
"Magic for Liars" cuts deep. But it’s not the kind of noir fantasy that privileges the titillation of crime over the depth and nuance and many-layered innocences of its characters. It’s a book of discovery, and connection, and a conversation about what is at the rock-bottom of human nature. Is it love? Is it fear? Is it the ability to hurt or harmonize with others? Gailey gets pain. They get that pain resides not just in the mind, but in the marrow.