Your Favorite Fantasy Magic Systems, Rated

The B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog

There was a time in the fantasy genre when magic was simply, er, magical, and didn’t require a whole lot of explanation.

But time has a habit of making everything more complex, and so it’s unsurprising that magic systems have followed suit. These days, there are basically two schools of thought when it comes to magic in books, as outlined in a widely circulated essay by author Brandon Sanderson concerning “hard” (rigorous adherence to rules) and “soft” (looser, more hand-wave-y) magic systems. It’s now possible to classify just about every fantasy book into one of those two categories, and many readers have some very strong opinions about which is preferable and why.

Of course, we’re advocates for an author choosing the type of magic system that best fits their narrative, but for purposes of classification, let’s imagine a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 indicates the least-rigorous kind of magic system (everything can be explained via the phrase “because magic”) and 10 is the most-rigorous (finishing a book or series in this category earns you an honorary doctorate in that magic system).

Here’s how we’d rank 16 fantasy books and series on our rigorous/non-rigorous scale—but before we dive in, let us note that we aren’t suggesting one type of magic system is better than another; storytellers should be allowed the latitude to cast their own spell over readers.

The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien
Magic System Rating: 1 (Because Magic)
It’s difficult to have a conversation about classifying fantasy books without at least mentioning Tolkien. The man was writing a modern myth, and myths don’t usually explain their magic in great detail, so it’s little surprise that Tolkien’s magic displays very little that’s systematic in the modern sense. In Tolkien’s universe, magic stems from wisdom and inherent power—the closer you are to Iluvatar, the creator, the more inherent power you have. As a result, the elves and Istari are always more magically capable than men, and the eldest and wisest among them are the most powerful. But Tolkien also presents all power as inherently corrupting, and magic the most corrupting of all. In the end, despite the reams of detailed backstory, history, and character biography the man created, his magic has almost no rigor at all, rather originating from the individual will and knowledge of its practitioners.

A Song of Ice and Fire, by George R.R. Martin
Magic System Rating: 1 (Because Magic)
Martin is writing a purposeful deconstruction of epic fantasy tropes—including magic systems—and has actually put some work into making his magic frustrating and inconsistent beyond a few broad-stroke rules (there’s definitely some like-for-like business, with equivalent sacrifices needed to produce an effect). Most of the people actively using magic in his world seem befuddled by the whole process; the general sense is that it’s unreliable and often ineffective—but when it works, boy howdy does it ever work (shadow assassins, am I right?). It’s a fascinating twist on the whole concept, as its lack of rigor is intentional, and serves the larger design of the narrative—a design we must note is not yet complete, so there may be more to come on this front.

The Belgariad, by David Eddings and The Books of Earthsea, by Ursula K. Le Guin
Magic System Rating: 2 (Simple, but Effective)
These two mainstays of post-Tolkien fantasy offer a slight refinement on the “obscured by the mists of time” approach J.R.R. took, offering extremely simple magic systems that apply a very, very small instructional set. In Eddings’ old-school classic, certain folks can employ the Will and the Word—want something hard enough, and speak a word, and it happens (within some extremely broad limitations set by the gods). In Earthsea, everything has a secret, true name in the ancient language of the dragons; if you learn it, you have power over that thing or person (and by the way: you can’t lie in the dragons’ language—unless you are, in fact, a dragon). These rules are so basic as to allow for just about anything to happen, magic-wise, but they do offer at least a sketch of a system on which to hang your pointed, star-and-moon-covered conical hat.

The Eternal Champion, by Michael Moorcock
Magic System Rating: 3 (Non-Rigorous, but With an Explanation)
The legendary Moorcock also follows the old-school habit of not explaining his magic too deeply, but he does at least provide an explanation of how it works, along with a dose of unreliability. Most magic in his universe is accomplished by contacting, bargaining with, or summoning and controlling demons and elemental beings—if you’re looking to smash an advancing army, you could summon an incredibly powerful, army-smashing demon. The problem being that all these immensely powerful beings have their own agendas, so it’s not uncommon for these sorts of spells to go awry—or for someone to lose control of them entirely, resulting in chaos. It’s a neat way to cover for the fact that your magic system isn’t so much a system as a loose set of guidelines.

Shades of Magic, by V.E. Schwab
Magic System Rating: 4 (Mystery Box)
V.E. Schwab’s magic system in the excellent Shades of Magic series is organized, but not terribly rule-laden. We understand the mechanics of the wizard-like Antari’s blood magic, but much of the ways and hows of magic’s function in the three magical Londons (Red, White, and Black—Grey London is our London, and thus has no magic) is left mysterious. Not that this hurts the story in any way—Schwab expertly gives readers exactly enough information to make the system workable without overloading them with detail that, frankly, isn’t necessary to appreciate her story, and might even ruin the spell of awe and wonder cast by the character-centric narrative.

The Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling
Magic System Rating: 5 (Faux-Rigor)
Rowling’s omnipresence makes her an automatic reference in this discussion. Though they take place at a magic school, the magic system she’s developed for the Harry Potter universe isn’t actually all that rigorous. Magical ability is genetic, so you’re just sort of born with it, and behind all the words and wands there’s precious little explanation of exactly how it all works (although, to be fair, there’s a bit more detail when it comes to potions). Despite how much Rowling has added to the universe via Pottermore reveals and controversial tweetbombs, we’re still not clear whether you can just add the word maxima to any spell in order to increase its power.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke
Magic System Rating: 5 (Faux-Rigor)
Clarke also does a fantastic job of hiding a pretty vague magic system beneath a lot of superficial detail, lending an appearance of a complex set of rules governing the use of magic without ever offering a rational set of rules. Clarke isn’t floundering, though—one of the great qualities of the novel is the fact that the actual magicians in it are often just as befuddled by the details of magic. It makes sense, since in-narrative, it’s presented as a lost art, only suddenly returned to the world in the early 19th century. The combination of oddly specific spells (for example, one involving a mirror, some flowers, and a specific set of patterns) and unanswered questions (which flower?) creates its own sort of magic: the illusion of a detailed system.

The Wheel of Time, by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson
Magic System Rating: 5 (Faux-Rigor)
The magic system in The Wheel of Time is often misunderstood, for two reasons: one, it’s purposefully obscured, in that many of the supposed rules are never explained and much of it is chalked up to innate skill and talent. Two, it starts off as a relatively rigorous system that then decays into something much softer as the plot points demanded it. The magic system is extremely consistent and pattern-based—once you know how to bend and twist a strand of the One Power to produce a certain effect, you can repeat the recipe over and over again with the same result—and the characters consistently work within those rules, and are often forced to be clever in using their knowledge in order to overcome obstacles (one of Sanderson’s own rules about hard magic). But an arms race of ever more powerful characters and plot twists that undermine the rules (Androl Genhald, your ears are burning) lowered the numerical ranking by a few points.

The Kingkiller Chronicle, by Patrick Rothfuss
Magic System Rating: 6 (Both Rigorous and Non-Rigorous)
The magic systems Rothfuss invents for his beloved epic fantasy are a curious hybrid. On the one hand, Sympathy—the linking of two objects so they share the effects of a single force—is extremely detailed, as are alchemy and other magics, to the point where Rothfuss says he has equations in his notes to back up every use of magic in the books. You don’t get much more rigorous than Sympathy. On the other hand, he also has a system of “true name”-style magic that is completely unexplained and non-rigorous. Rothfuss has explained that he simply wanted the best of both worlds: to give readers the satisfaction of understanding a magic system and appreciating its cleverness, combined with the sense of awe and wonder that unexplained magic can offer.

Tales of the Dying Earth, by Jack Vance
Magic System Rating: 7 (Rigorous)
There aren’t many SFF writers who have a whole style of magic named after them, but if you Google “Vancian Magic,” you’ll find your way to Vance’s Dying Earth cycle. Vance has a simple system: magic spells must be memorized, but they are fantastically long, so people can only memorize a few at a time—and spells are forgotten the moment you cast them. This kind of resource-limiting magic system is straightforward but adds that spice of limitation and obstacle that Sanderson codified in his essay. Vance doesn’t make any effort to explain precisely why magic works or how the spells are structured, which dings a few points on the rigor scale, but it’s a powerful idea that’s been borrowed by plenty of writers since.

The Broken Earth trilogy, by N.K. Jemisin
Magic System Rating: 7 (Rigorous)
No conversation about fantasy storytelling these days is complete without checking on what Jemisin’s doing—she’s hugely influential, highly successful, and what literary scientists classify as damn good. Her Broken Earth series creates a distinction between magic and what she terms orogeny; the latter is the ability by some in the seismically-unstable world of the Stillness to harness that seismic energy (and other forms of energy) and channelit as they will. Orogeny has plenty of defined rules that approach a scientific depth of complexity and rigor (the author worked with geologists to develop the science behind her magic), but Jemisin is famously disinterested in codifying her magic systems, and reacts humorously to any attempt to get her to offer a dissertation on the subject.

The Magicians, by Lev Grossman
Magic System Rating: 8 (It Eats Rigor for Breakfast)
As a deconstruction of Harry Potter, Grossman’s series would tend towards the rigorous side of the spectrum, wouldn’t it? Instead of a vague wand-and-word system that is more fun than sensible, Grossman explores what it might actually be like to study magic as a complex and ancient discipline. The spells are complex and follow specific patterns, require a lot of basic memorization and learning of fundamentals before you can skate off into theory, and the whole things feels like work the same way higher math feels like work. Yet the feeling that you too could cast spells if you just studied hard enough more than makes up for it.

Vita Nostra, by Marina and Sergey Dyachenko (translated by Julia Meitov Hersey)
Magic System Rating:
8 (It Eats Rigor for Breakfast)
Russian authors Marina and Sergey Dyachenko take a similar approach to Grossman’s The Magicians in sketching out the way magic works in their award-winning 2006 novel, which was finally released in the U.S. in 2018—though rather than mathematics, its rules veer closer to language theory and linguistics. When 16-year-old Sasha Samokhina enrolls at the Institute for Special Technologies, she is thrust into a magical education that couldn’t be any further removed from Hogwarts. In their first year, the students spend most of their time reading nigh-incomprehensible texts, training their brains to unlock the power inherent in language. Once they’ve mastered that (a process that literally transforms their brains), they develop more advanced abilities to manipulate the world through the definitional power of language. To say much more would steer us into spoiler territory; needless to say, you’ll finish the book feeling as if your own mind has been rewired.

Master of the Five Magics, by Lyndon Hardy
Magic System Rating: 8 (It Eats Rigor for Breakfast)
As the title suggests, there are five magical systems (at least initially) in Hardy’s 1980s classic, and they are all rigorously defined, with explicit rules and laws spelled out for you. The five magics are thaumaturgy, alchemy, magic, sorcery, and wizardry, and each discipline has its own set of rules. For example, the rules for wizardry, which is the magical discipline concerned with summoning demons, are The Law of Ubiquity (Flame permeates all) and The Law of Dichotomy (dominance or submission). In other words, you can summon demons through fire (fires built from different fuels will summon different or more powerful demons) and once a demon is summoned, the wizard must either dominate the demon’s will, or be dominated instead. Simple and elegant—and that’s most impressive is that Hardy developed these laws and rules for all five of his disciplines; he then goes on to illustrate additional meta-rules, applicable after his protagonist achieves the titular honor.

The Craft Sequence, by Max Gladstone
Magic System Rating: 9 (We Got Rules for Our Rules)
Gladstone true brilliance in this series is in his thinking about magic in terms of contracts and legalese, resulting in an extremely rigorous system that is also endlessly, infinitely flexible—just like real life contract law. Add in the realization that the gods of this world draw their power directly from belief—belief that can be engineered and manufactured like a commodity—and boom, you’ve got a transactional magic system that is unique, compelling, and quite rigorous. In Gladstone’s universe, the force of magic itself—the power of the gods—is actually pretty gormless and non-rigorous, but it is made rigorous by the application of Craft, and the manipulation of those rules in accepted ways. That is some deeply magical thinking.

The Cosmere novels, by Brandon Sanderson
Magic System Rating: 10 (You Got Science in My Magic)
Unsurprisingly, the man who wrote one of the most influential modern essays on the fantasy genre (and who’s also kind of successful as a writer of fantasy fiction) has produced one of the most rigorous magic systems in history. For extra points, the magic system he’s crafted, Investiture, is a stealth meta system that encompasses several other already-rigorous magic systems laid out in separate fantasy series that have slowly been revealed to be not so separate after all—to be, in fact, part of a larger, integrated universe. Sanderson’s achievement here can’t be understated: Investiture is only partially revealed at this time, but what’s clear is that the different magic systems found across Sanderson’s books—from Mistborn‘s Allomancy (the manipulation of ingested metals gives users superhuman abilities), to Warbreaker‘s BioChroma (magical power is drawn from colors present in the user’s environment), to Elantris‘ ritual-based Dor—all follow the same general guidelines, as they’re all part of the meta-system he’s crafting. It’s all quite detailed and consistent, yet tons of fun to think about.

Dungeons & Dragons
Magic System Rating: 11 (Ph.D.-Level Magic)
Okay, it’s not strictly a work of fiction, but by necessity, D&D remains the gold-standard for hard magic systems—because if it wasn’t, the game it powers wouldn’t work. Every single detail is mapped out, every aspect of magic is controlled and explained, and every outcome makes sense based on detailed rules of interaction. The real magic here is how the, um, magic of magic is maintained despite the rigor applied to it; in part this is due to the introduction of chance in the form of a roll of the die and the (typically) unknown stats of the object of your spell, but part of it also stems from the spirit of the endeavor: D&D isn’t trying to suppress your imagination or sense of awe, it’s just seeking to channel them in a coherent and replicable fashion.

What books have your favorite magic systems, and how would you rate them?

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In Vita Nostra, the Study of Magic is Scientific, Sinister, and Deeply Strange

The B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog

Admission into a magical school is the starting point for many a paranormal bildungsroman. Harry Potter is visited by a giant on his 11th birthday, and soon whisked off to Hogwarts, and, maybe more importantly, into a wizarding world that understands his true worth; the nascent wizard Sparrowhawk, talented and oh, so arrogant, goes from his meager beginnings on Gont to the vaunted school for wizards on Roke Island; the gifted student is identified, and jumps at the chance to escape a heretofore mundane existence. The magical school is a beacon of one’s extraordinary nature. Who would pass up an opportunity to realize their magical potential?

In Vita NostraMarina and Sergey Dyachenko turn this time-honored trope it on its head. Admission to the magical college at its center is terrifying, coercive, and deadly. Failure there is met with brutal results, and dreams of escape are quenched definitely and completely.

Alexandra Samokhina meets Farit Kazhennikov first on a beach holiday with her mother, on what I assume is the Black Sea. Sasha is a nervous 16, still hanging on her mother’s apron strings and swimming in the surf like a gleeful child while other kids her age are pounding out the beat in discotheques and smoking on street corners. She begins to notice a man with sunglasses everywhere she goes, a man whose presence fills her with dread, though to everyone else, he seems completely ordinary. After a series of near encounters that seem to loop through time, Sasha and Kazhennikov finally converse. He tells her she must wake up every morning at precisely 4 a.m., go for a run, and skinny dip in the ocean, swimming to the outer buoy and back.

Sasha completes the task dutifully (and with no small measure of confusion), and after every pre-dawn swim, she comes home and vomits up coins that look like the old Soviet kopecks. Until the morning the alarms don’t go off, and something bad happens to someone Sahsa cares about. Kazhennikov is both stern and vaguely apologetic: It is out of his hands what will happen if she shirks his prescripted actions, but happen it will. She continues her morning swims.

Meanwhile, Sasha has attempted to continue a normal life, immersing herself in the rounds of studying, test-taking, and socializing that characterize the life of a senior in high school. But Kazhennikov intrudes again, with more strange demands, and Sasha again acquiesces, with the sense that if she were to fail, recriminations more horrible than a heart attack that wasn’t fatal will be visited on her mother. By the time Sasha is ready to take her entrance tests to university, she’s vomited up dozens of occult coins, which she keeps in a purse hidden in her lower desk drawer.

This is when Kazhennikov tells Sasha, in no uncertain terms, that she will be attending the Institute of Special Technologies in the provincial town of Torpa.

In 1991, when I was 16 years old, I went on a school trip to the Soviet Union. It was March; in August the Soviet Union would break. We landed in Moscow and took an overnight train to our provincial destination, to Minsk in Belarus. The sleeper berths flopped down to pinstriped mattresses, where we slept uncomfortably while older Russian women slid open the door and yelled at us incomprehensibly at the top of every hour. We were disgorged into Minsk, and then into the dubious comfort of our host families. We came together again every school day into a strangely ornate room in School No. 30, a room designed with Soviet care to impress. I spent something like 30 days in that country, a place right on the seismic edge of irrevocable change. I think every one of us who applied to college wrote about our experience there in our entrance essays.

Vita Nosta—which means something like “the brief life” or “the brevity of life”—reminded me again and again of my time in a country lost to history, experienced by a version of myself that has been subsumed under years, decades, of who I’ve since become. Sasha boards a train and it takes her to provincial town where all the accents are wrong. She meets her roommates in a dorm in a school that no one, not even the son of the enigmatic Farit Kazhennikov, wants to attend. The pickles and boiled eggs; the curling irons and power outages; the cold radiators with laundry set upon it: all of this reminded me of my time on the edge of the Soviet Union, about to fall, about to shatter everywhere. It was a scary time and place for a careful kid from the Midwest. I had made my choice before I knew how dire the situation was. Sasha makes hers with the same kind of inexplicable terror. We had contingency plans to escape to Lithuania, Poland maybe, if things got too hot where we were, but I can’t even imagine now what would have activated those contingencies. That sort of thing is always too late, an idle daydream of safety, of escape.

Sasha and her fellow students at the Institute of Special Technologies work towards the inscrutable exams they’re expected, somehow, to pass. They’re given impossible mental exercises, passages of gibberish they’re to memorize and internalize. There are other, more normal classes: English, Gym, History; none of these provoke the fear of Specialty, a class in which failure will unleash unspoken horrors on their loved ones. Kazhennikov’s son Kostya fails an exam, and his grandmother dies. Sasha stumbles in her schoolwork, and the next time she speaks to her mother, her mother tells the story of a broken hand, but it could have been so much worse. Failure, escape: these are not options.

Even though Sasha doesn’t want to be there, and is terrified by both success and failure at the occult university that chose her (and not the other way around), she begins to succeed, insofar as anything in that place can be called success. Is she studying magic? It’s not quite clear. It’s certainly nothing so straightforward as dueling lessons and potions class—she listens to recordings of silence that are subtly different kinds of lack of sound, which tear up her mind in different ways. She encounters the usual enemies and friends and lovers and losers of a first year at college, but nothing, nothing, is what it seems.

The fantastic nature of the Institute is revealed gradually—clearly telegraphed in Sasha’s midnight swims in the Black Sea, but never quite in full flower, creating an odd sort of suspense that keeps the pages turning. Sasha begins to change, losing time, and waking with a sudden shock of scales glinting across her skin. The goal of her studies remains inscrutable, occult. The teachers insist one the importance of the curricula, but mostly it just feels like fear and threats. There is no Dark Lord looming outside the school grounds. There is no scar burning on her forehead. There is just the work, whatever it means.

Vita Nostra—published in Russian in 2008 and only the second novel by the Dyachenkos, revered for more than 20 novels penned in their native tongue, to be translated into English—is a remarkable story in many ways, not the least of which is because of how terrifying its supernatural school is: only attended out of coercion, with a magic that doesn’t feel desirable, but onerous and strange. It feels like the hard choices and the helpless quiescence of banal youth, tied up with a ribbon of magic with the sharpest of edges.

Vita Nostra is available now. Read our interview with its translator, Julia Meitov Hersey. 

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Opening Up New Worlds: A Conversation About Fantasy in Translation

The B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog

What if someone wrote one of the best fantasy novels of all time, and there was no way for you to read it?

For a decade, that has been the reality for many prospective readers of Vita Nostra, by the co-writing team of Marina and Sergey Dyachenko. Though hailed as the best fantasy novel of the 21st century by the attendees of Eurocon 2008 and the recipient of some eight literary awards, for years, the book was simply inaccessible to many readers, for one simple reason: the authors published it in their native tongue, which made it off-limits to anyone unable to read Russian.

Thousands of science fiction and fantasy novels are published in English every year, but only a small percentage of those began life as works in other languages—which means those of us who can read only in English are missing out on countless books we’d love, if we even knew they existed. Consider the Dyachenkos: in Russia, they are revered fantasists with a bibliography of more than 20 celebrated novels. Yet until this year, only one of them had been published in English—The Scar, released by Tor in 2012 to great reviews but a muted response from readers (possibly because it shared a title and a glancingly similar cover with a Hugo-nominated book by China Miéville).

Typically for a non-English SFF book to make that leap, it requires strong sales (Cixin Liu’s The Three-Body Problem, the only translated novel to win the Hugo Award, has a massive following in its native China) or the backing of an influential champion. Or, perhaps, both, and not a little bit of luck: Vita Nostra was obviously a beloved book, but it wasn’t until it drew the attention of author and literary critic Lev Grossman (The Magicians) that it garnered interest from U.S. publishers (it is being released here by Harper Voyager).

But how did Grossman learn about the book? Well, that’s the truly interesting story—because a large part of the credit for the success of any novel in translation goes to the person responsible for dragging it from one language into another. Grossman was personally contacted by a reader who’d read the Russian novel—about a young girl who enrolls in a school for the magically gifted and finds the practice of magic to be nothing like Hogwarts promised—and thought it shared common blood with the book Grossman had just published to great fanfare; with his urging, she provided him a few translated pages, then a few more, then a few more.

Recently, we talked over email with that reader-cum-translator, Julia Meitov Hersey, who ultimately wound up translating the whole of Vita Nostra into English, about how her love of stories led her to working on translating them, and the odd journey the Dyachenkos novel took to the shelves of bookstores in the English-speaking world.

What is your background in fantasy? Did you grow up reading the genre? 
I am rather a cliche—I was shy and unpopular, prefered books to people, and grew up reading everything I could get my hands on, from Decameron to Steinbeck.

My love for sci-fi and fantasy began with The Martian Chronicles and the Narnia books. I remember one particular summer—I must have been in seventh or eighth grade—when I read fourteen volumes of the Anthology of Modern Science Fiction and Fantasy in two months. I still reread some of the stories in that collection every now and then just to relive the magic of that summer, with its dandelion wine and shooting stars.

I loved speculative fiction back then, and I still love it now, although I am less interested in spaceships and robots these days. I do still prefer human stories where the characters find themselves in slightly unrealistic situations—just to make it more interesting. I love One Hundred Years of Solitude, Life After Life, The Leftovers—they are very different books, but the common denominator is that all these novels transcend the limits of one particular genre; these authors tell a damn good story, and they tell it with extraordinary literary taste.

I’m interested to know how you became interested in translation work, and what drew you to translating a Russian novel in particular.
The second part of your question is easy—Russian is the only language I am qualified to translate from. I grew up in Moscow, so technically Russian is my native language. However, I have lived in the States for over twenty years, and my written Russian is by now somewhat archaic, so I am much more comfortable translating from Russian into English.

The reason I started translating was my frustration with the US book market. There is so much remarkable foreign fiction out there, and we know so little of it. We celebrate the big wins, such as Stieg Larsson or Haruki Murakami, but there are so many phenomenal works of literature out there that just don’t get the attention they so richly deserve. Off the top of my head, in Russia we have Dmitry Bykov, Narine Abgaryan, Yana Wagner—extraordinary writers that should be known and celebrated.

As a result, every time I wanted to buy a book for my husband or my kids, I would realize that it didn’t exist. So I started translating just so I could share my favorites with them. I started off with Sergey Lukyanenko’s The Knights of the Forty Islands, then went on to a novel by the Strugatsky brothers, and continued with the Dyachenkos. Until the Dyachenkos, translating books was just a hobby of mine, and I didn’t think anything I translate would ever be published.

How did you first encounter the work of the Dyachenkos?
I try to keep up with the new Russian literature, partly to avoid losing touch with my culture, and partly to keep up my Russian language skills. I usually buy Russian books online, and I picked up a copy of Vita Nostra because it was on sale. Once I read it, I went on to read the entire body of Marina and Sergey’s work—at this point over 20 novels and countless short stories.

How did you come to translate Vita Nostra? Were there other books that you almost translated instead?
Vita Nostra was a revelation. Even at first reading, I found so many levels—yes, it was about a school where practical magic is taught, but it was also about raising children and how far they can and should be pushed. It was about how fragile and anxious we are when we truly love someone. It was about the power of language. It was about responsibility and whether the end justifies the means. And here I have barely scratched the surface.

Vita Nostra’s complexity absolutely overwhelmed and terrified me. I would never have attempted to translate it if it weren’t for Lev Grossman, the author of The Magicians trilogy and the upcoming novel The Bright Sword. I went to his reading at the Boston Barnes & Noble when The Magicians first came out, and mentioned to him how he and the Dyachenkos must have been tapping into some sort of collective unconscious, because the two books had so much in common. Lev asked me to translate a few pages, then asked for more, and I just kept going.

Vita Nostra strikes me as a very complex work to translate, as it deals so much with complex, quasi-philosophical language and confounding logic. What was particularly challenging about this translation project?
There were a few things that kept me up at night: the technical terms (astronomy, psychiatry, etc.), hidden quotes [from other novels] (I am pretty sure I missed a few), and the way the language changes from deceptively simple in the “reality” scenes, like descriptions of Torpa [the town in which the novel is set] and the “transformation” episodes (I’m trying to avoid spoilers here). Some of the scenes were so emotionally charged that, when I worked on them, I actually forgot to blink—and ended up needing artificial tears.

I haven’t read a great deal of Russian fiction, and the novel’s style felt slightly alien to me. Do you think there are marked differences in the way Eastern and Western writers approach writing the fantastical?
Yes! And not just the fantastical. I think Western writers don’t just rely on sheer talent. Their books, in any genre, are much more structured. It may have a lot to do with stricter requirements and an extended editing phase—I don’t know enough about Eastern publishing to be the judge.

And sometimes it’s all about grammar. Since I grew up writing in Russian, I feel the difference all the time. Word order is one example of major differences. In Russian I have a lot more freedom in arranging words in a sentence the way I want. English demands discipline. In Russian, the use of em dashes and ellipses is much more acceptable, and I always have to watch how many em dashes per page I can really afford. I love em dashes with passion—almost as much as I love the Oxford comma. I am so grateful to David Pomerico for curbing my em dash addiction. [Editor’s note: I left in all of the em dashes in Julia’s emailed responses.]

Russian-influenced fantasy is a bit of a trend for Western writers right now—Naomi Novik’s Uprooted and Spinning Silver; Katherine Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale. If you’ve gotten a chance to read any of these works, I’m curious to know how they strike you in comparison to native Slavic fantasy novels.
I read and loved both The Bear and the Nightingale and Uprooted, and would like to throw Catherynne Valente’s Deathless into the mix, because it is such a beautiful book. I am continuously amazed at how respectful these books are of their Eastern European origins, and how much research the authors conduct. It may be a trend, but it’s not an easy trend to follow—one must be absolutely fascinated by the subject, and in these books, the authors’ love for Russia shines through.

Strangely enough, I am not as familiar with the native Slavic fantasy novels as I should be. I think I instinctively shy away from them because I don’t really care about the Slavic element by itself—I just want a good story.

What efforts did you make to preserve the distinctly Russian flavor of the novel?
Interestingly enough, I didn’t think of Vita Nostra as having a distinctly Russian flavor. Sure, there are some realia of living and studying in Russia, like sleeping in berths on cross-country trains, having university entrance exams after you graduate from high school, or eating something as indescribable as anchovies in tomato sauce, but Sasha’s story could have happened in any country. Perhaps because my university experience was so similar to Sasha’s (minus the world-changing techniques), I managed to preserve the Russian flavor without really trying to. I was more concerned with the fact that some of the concepts were slightly outdated, like cassette tapes and CD players.

Can you think of examples of anything that literally didn’t translate, and what you had to do to get around them?
Names! There are so many variations of each Russian name, and each variation means something different. From neutral Sasha to informal Sashka to affectionate Sashenka to stern or official Alexandra—and all these nuances are lost on the English-language reader. I made the decision to eliminate all these variations and stick with Sasha, but I hated myself for it.

From what I was able to discover online, your translation was commercially available as an ebook before Harper Voyager acquired the rights. I’m curious to know if there was additional editing done on this now widely available version?
Yes, as my friend Anatoly Belilovsky says, it’s a bit of a Cinderella story. We were able to release Vita Nostra as an e-book through Trident Digital Media and Publishing a few years ago. Then, thanks to the endless heroic efforts of Josh Getzler of HSG Agency, who is now representing both the Dyachenkos and me, we were able to acquire the rights to the novel. He offered it to David Pomerico at Harper Voyager.

David didn’t make a lot of structural changes to the manuscript, but he and his team have truly made the text come alive. In some cases it was smoothing out some awkward phrasing or catching a discrepancy, but there had been some situations when a simple change would make the page sparkle. I remember one example when David changed a single sentence from “Go ahead, check, Kostya said,” to “‘Go ahead’, Kostya said. ‘Check.’”

But all in all, it [will have taken] nine long years for Vita Nostra to become widely available, and so many people were involved.

Are you involved in any more translation projects right now, whether from these authors or others? Is there a “dream project” you’d love to work on?
I have translated four more novels by Marina and Sergey Dyachenko: The Cave, The Valley of Conscience, The Ritual, and Alyona and Aspirin.

Alyona and Aspirin has also been purchased by Harper Voyager and will be published in the fall of 2020. It is, according to Publishers Marketplace, set in “an unnamed city where a well-known journalist and DJ saves a young girl and her teddy bear (who are NOT what—or from where—they seem) from a bunch of toughs—and sets in motion events that force him to confront his formerly stable and enjoyable existence and glimpse the girl’s perspective—full of death and fear—leading to confrontation and possible revelation of her true nature.”

Currently, I am working on a few screenplays and synopses for StoryWorld, a production company based in California. I am also in the middle of translating The Beam, a new YA novel by Marina and Sergey, and a collection of fairy-tales they wrote for their daughter Anastasia.

My dream project? I have a long list of Dyachenko novels I need to get to. I would love to translate Narine Abgaryan’s lovely music box of a novel called Manyunya, Yana Wagner’s Vongozero, or Dmitry Bykov’s In Charge of Evacuation. I wish I could work on some Strugatsky novels, but Olena Bormashenko is just too damn good at it.

I also want to continue working on the the Metamorphoses cycle, of which Vita Nostra is the first part. The other two novels in the cycle are loosely connected to Vita Nostra thematically, but are very different in style and concept.

There is so much I want to do. I just need to remember to blink.

Preorder Vita Nostra, to be published (in English) on November 13, 2018. 

The post Opening Up New Worlds: A Conversation About Fantasy in Translation appeared first on The B&N Sci-Fi and Fantasy Blog.

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