The Big Idea: Sam Munson

If I knew nothing else about the book, I would give a thumb up Sam Munson’s novel merely for the title alone: The War Against the Assholes. Fortunately, there’s more to the book than the fabulous title, as Munson explains below.


What animates The War Against the Assholes philosophically (its author asked, rhetorically and pretentiously)? I am too close to the book to speak with critical authority, here, but I suppose there are two questions or two groups of questions.

Why do clerical, hierarchical ideas of magic dominate our thinking on the subject in literature? From the unfortunate Lucius, protagonist of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, to the eager students at Hogwarts and Brakebills, we can find a deep-rooted view of magic as governed by learning, by essentially academic ability: mastery of rituals and formulae, penetration into theories of physics and biology, philological skill.  This view — which it is quite reasonable to find so widespread, being, it seems to me, anchored in the real-world history of magic — informs even departures from the trope, where magic that exists outside the ambit of a secret clerisy carries with it a tint of darkness, excites suspicion, and often undoes its practitioners.

As a lifelong poor student and reader of novels of the fantastic, I found this preponderant view fascinating and also provoking. The basic principle of magic, as it has been understood historically and in literature, is the unmediated effectuation of one’s will. It seems psychologically unlikely, to say the least, that defeating the immutable physical laws of the universe would leave one much attached to the reclusive and repetitive tasks scholarship entails.

This is doubly true, it seems to me, in the case of young people, of adolescents – a perennial subject in fantastic works. Here the fidelity of literary magic to historical magic diverges: the magical young appear most often as studious, serious, well-intentioned, and highly moral bearers of a world-shaking imperative (the discovery of which is inseparable from their initiation into magic). The youth of this world, sadly and joyously, are free of such burdens by nature; if they bear them they amount to little more than an affectation. And how could they not? To be young is to be more or less a sociopath, more or less a fragment, more or less nothing; add to this the world-defying power magic by definition brings with it, and the idea of

being at once a young magician and scholarly do-gooder seems like a contradictio in adjecto. I do not want to cite any such figures by name; I do not want to be invidious, here — merely to point out that this is a trope and as such warrants investigation. Why not posit, for example, a theology of magic that rests far more on the ability to harness willpower, irrespective of academic ability? Why not posit a formal theory of magic that does not rest on reliable tools — fetishes or incantations — but rather on the particularities of the magician’s personality? Why would magic, being the effectuation of a will, necessarily be uniform from one practitioner to another?

The magicians who form the narrative core of The War Against the Assholes practice that form of magic — and they and their colleagues suffer massive and violent oppression as a result, albeit oppression totally invisible to larger, non-magical society. Mike Wood, the narrator, is an academic failure, a violent football player; his close colleagues are, for the most part, his equals in animal cunning and suspicion of received authority. Their opponents, the titular assholes, are the academic magicians, servants of authority. This antinomy is of course an oversimplification – compromise, often at a murderous cost, forms another central narrative strand in the book. But the idea of approaching the formal side of building a magic not from a clerical standpoint but from an anticlerical one, I admit, was a task that drew me on and on into the book.

This of course leads into the other central question: whence authority? Whither authority? Does it proceed from expertise or from innate virtue? Does talent justify its own excesses? Is the power to command purely and solely resident in a system or does it spring from the person commanding? The hierarchical world Mike and his colleagues struggle against is opulent — they own, for example, a private magical academy on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, one that obtrudes into an enormous forest in another reality, making them masters in two worlds, not just one. They nepotistically promote their own kind above objectively more talented magicians. And they greet any threat to their authority, even a comparatively mild one, with orders-of-magnitude-greater-than-necessary violence and speed.

Again, this tension is not meant to be taken as a formula for moral understanding: Mike is a child of real-world privilege, as are all of his younger colleagues (his older ones less so), and their insurgency is colored by concomitant anxieties. The war he and his friends conduct is blessed by no obvious superiority to the war being fought against them. Authority comes, as much for Mike as for his opponents, from the will to seize it.

At least he’s not an asshole, though.


The War Against the Assholes: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Indiebound|Powell’s

Read an excerpt. Visit the author’s site.


15 Comments on “The Big Idea: Sam Munson”

  1. 14 bucks for the ebook version? God what an asshole!

    But this sounds like a seriously good read. I’m not usually attracted to the books Scalzi has in the big idea. This one has me interested.

  2. I wonder if the heavy use of scholarly language in this essay, considering the Big Idea that it describes, is deliberately or accidentally ironic.

  3. Ya know Wilson, I was wondering something in the same vein. I’m sure the book is a good read, but I couldn’t get past the third paragraph of this essay before I abandoned the effort. Perhaps the fault lies with myself and not the good author.

  4. PPNL:

    “14 bucks for the ebook version? God what an asshole!

    But this sounds like a seriously good read. I’m not usually attracted to the books Scalzi has in the big idea. This one has me interested.”

    Endorse all of the above. I went to buy it based on this essay, then saw the price and only one review and balked. But I’ve flagged the post to revisit in a month or two, perhaps.

  5. Lead character sounds like the worst asshole of all, as @eleventynumber said. Perhaps the title is ironic?

  6. [Deleted because comment went a bit over the line. Let’s not do personal insults, please – JS]

  7. My apologies. I actually wasn’t intending to be insulting at all; clearly I blew it.

  8. I’m afraid you’ve not made much of a case for why I should care for anybody in this book. From what you’ve said, they all sound like assholes. Sorry, but there are enough of those in my life already.

  9. Sadly, I’m with Cally on this one: there have been a few too many stories about people dealing with the aftermath of athletes taking advantage of their perceived privilege for me to want to spend my beer money reading a fictional version.

  10. The book might or might not be a winner, but I found the style of the essay drove me away – too elliptical, too consciously clever, too slow to tell me anything. Perhaps a miscalculation on the author’s part.

  11. I went to read the excerpt, but there isn’t one. You get a title page, a dedication/legal text page, and then many many pages that say that you have reached the limit for your preview or this page is unavailable. I suppose if I scrolled far enough down I might eventually find text I’m allowed to read, but if so it is a massive failure of user interface that still amounts to there being no excerpt.

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