** spoiler alert ** 
 I can't adequately express how much I admired this book. I am a longtime, diehard fan of both the Harry Potter series and the Narnia series, and this felt like a loving homage to both (and to the fantasy genre as a whole) while simultaneously being a serious, painstakingly constructed subversion of its tropes and the naive, trite paths fantasy narratives so often take - paths with a clear hero or set of heroes and a clear villain or set of villains, paths with a transparent objective and a way to achieve that objective. In the traditional fantasy novel, the protagonist is utterly likeable and (if at all) flawed in ways that are trivial, in ways you understand and even root for (Harry Potter, Lucy Pevensie); the villain is often one-dimensional with poor or at least alienating justifications for their evil-doing (Voldemort, the White Witch). The main characters are often morally aspirational in at least one way; they are set apart by their kindness, their loyalty, their courage, their honesty, or some combination of the traits widely considered ethically ideal. Well, Quentin Coldwater is obviously not morally aspirational. No, he is a regular guy in everything but intelligence - the thing that gets him into this magical world. He is morally lateral, if that makes sense. He reacts with all the selfishness and greed and rage of a normal boy his age who happens to win the fantasy lottery ticket that Brakebills represents. And, though he is the protagonist, he is not the hero: Alice, his long-suffering girlfriend, is. One reviewer here described this book aptly, but with obvious disgust, as [paraphrased] "Harry Potter from the point of view of Draco Malfoy", failing to recognize what a marvelous, innovative challenge to the fantasy form that concept is. Yes, in reality there are rare people who selflessly work for the good of others, like Alice. Yes, there are also rare people who are unspeakably grotesque, like Martin Chatwin. But most people ARE essentially the Draco Malfoys - struggling to navigate a morally nebulous existence and failing often, in small and in large ways, merely looking on while other more significant entities shape the world. It is uncomfortable to read in the same way that reading an intense scrutiny of your own high school/college failures and triumphs would quite naturally be. 
 But, like real life (and unlike Draco Malfoy, whom J.K. Rowling never granted the courtesy of deep character development; Slytherins were awful and that was pretty much that), Quentin grows. He learns, from his mistakes and from others'. In the first book his plaintive, purposeless adolescence comes to an end; in the second and third, he grows, with much travail and more epiphanies, into a man. 
 This is completely aside from the important and timely social commentary Quentin's trajectory and the world of Fillory provide us. No world, imagined or real, is without pain and bad people who will manipulate you for their own ends. There is no magic solution to the hedonic treadmill (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedonic_...) that humans are trapped in simply by virtue of existing with a complex brain. Almost none of us are especially skilled or intelligent in a way that will change the world even minutely for the positive, and in fact taking into account the resources each of us consume in our lifetimes, our net impact is likely to be negative, at best neutral; thus to be inundated with fantasy stories involving a single, noble hero who must save the universe is a damaging lie that we must stop internalizing, stop our kids from internalizing. There is no Aslan who will guide your steps with perfect benevolence and omniscience. Your life's purpose will almost certainly never be defined by your fight against the evil powers of your time, the Hitlers and the Pol Pots and the Ghaddafis (and the Voldemorts); it will most likely be defined by your petty struggle to be happy on a day to day basis. Over the three books of this series, you see this one guy who has been granted his every wish fall into that same ordinary struggle despite his best efforts to set himself apart and be a hero. And I won't say what happens at the very end, whether it is happy or sad - but I will say there are edifying lessons to be derived from the ultimate outcome of his personal journey. 
 A couple of addendums: 
 The worldbuilding was amazing. The magical world structure made sense in a way that Harry Potter's never did. Yes, of course in magical school you'd start with the most basic physical magic and move wider and deeper in scope as you progressed - of course you'd learn magical healing (why does only Madam Pomfrey know how to heal in HP?!) - of course you'd research a specialty and have a thesis project at the end. And, since magic will ensure you will never be poor or hungry for the rest of your life, of course you will descend into the sort of manic-depressive lifestyle post-college that privileged young people with no focus in "muggle" reality would. 
 The world-building only gets better as the series continues. The source of all magic is explored, a subject only hinted at in "The Magicians", as well as the world of those magicians who DON'T get into the elite wizarding schools; I'll say no more on that for fear of spoiling it, but it's great. 
 As any of you who read my reviews know, the representation of women and minorities in books is a concern for me. I felt that women were represented marvelously and with complete equality to the men. There were good and bad men and women, strong and weak men and women, smart and dumb, skilled and less skilled. 
 I don't remember any non-white main characters at all, which is a shame. 
 Finally, I want to emphasize that HP and Narnia are still as dear to me as before, and not just in a nostalgic sense. What I learn from Narnia, what I am reminded of every time I reread the series, is what the very best parts of me are, and how to put them forward. What I am reminded of with a book like The Magicians is what the worst parts of me are, and how to fight them and put them behind me. Narnia is inspirational. The Magicians is cautionary. Narnia urges me toward righteous action (my personal conception of it). The Magicians urges me toward acceptance and compromise. And so on. There will always be a place for both the quixotic and the nihilistic on my bookshelf.