The Magic Mountain is, at its core, a Bildungsroman—a story that traces the educational journey its protagonist undergoes over the course of their formative years. Thomas Mann’s novel follows Han Castorp, a young and impressionable engineer, as he transitions from youth to adulthood. Hans first arrives at the Berghof with minimal life experience: he’s only recently completed school and has yet to enter the workforce. Meanwhile, his philosophical ideas about life and death are simultaneously underdeveloped, overconfident, and malleable. Early in his stay at the sanatorium, Hans meets an older resident, Settembrini, who swiftly assumes the role of Hans’s mentor. Throughout Hans’s stay at the Berghof, Settembrini, an intellectual, constantly lectures Hans on the Enlightenment ideals of rationality, progress, and humanism. Though Hans does find value in some of Settembrini’s teachings and often enjoys listening to the man speak, he just as often resents the older man’s tendency to lecture and condescend to him. As a result, Hans intellectually rebels against his mentor, disregarding the genuinely good advice Settembrini tries to impress upon him and entertaining the potentially ill-advised lessons of dubious characters like the Leo Naphta and Mynheer Peeperkorn. In this way, The Magic Mountain portrays naivety and overconfidence as defining characteristics of youth.
While the novel suggests that it is natural and expected that younger generations may disrespect or rebuff the lessons older generations try to teach them, it implies that this response isn’t necessarily harmless. Indeed, disregarding such wisdom can even have devastating consequences, as is the case with Hans, whose formative years ultimately lead to little more than tragedy. Though Hans does finally act on Settembrini’s positive advice to stop wasting his youth at the Berghof, reenter the world, and become a productive member of society, he does so not because of a mature and voluntary personal revelation. Rather, Hans only rejoins society when he’s forced to fight in World War I, where he will almost certainly meet a violent, premature end. Hans’s story, then, ends before he can put the lessons he has learned in his formative years to positive, meaningful use. Not only does Hans’s naïve obstinance cause him to overlook helpful advice and waste his youth, but the uncontrollable forces that govern his world deny him the ability to learn from his mistakes.
Coming of Age ThemeTracker
Coming of Age Quotes in The Magic Mountain
Time, they say, is water from the river Lethe, but alien air is a similar drink; and if its effects are less profound, it works all the more quickly.
It was a cough, apparently—a man’s cough, but a cough unlike any that Hans Castorp had ever heard; indeed, compared to it, all other coughs with which he was familiar had been splendid, healthy expressions of life—a cough devoid of any zest for life or love, which didn’t come in spasms, but sounded as if someone were stirring feebly in a terrible mush of decomposing organic material.
For a person to be disposed to more significant deeds that go beyond what is simply required of him—even when his own times may provide no satisfactory answer to the question of why—he needs either a rare, heroic personality that exists in a kind of moral isolation and immediacy, or one characterized by exceptionally robust vitality. Neither the former nor the latter was the case with Hans Castorp, and so he probably was mediocre after all, though in a very honorable sense of that word.
On the whole, however, it seemed to him that although honor had its advantages, so, too, did disgrace, and that indeed the advantages of the latter were almost boundless. He tried putting himself in Herr Albin’s shoes and imagining how it must be when one is finally free of all the pressures honor brings and one can endlessly enjoy the unbounded advantages of disgrace—and the young man was terrified by a sense of dissolute sweetness that set his heart pounding even faster for a while.
Illness is, rather, a debasement—indeed, a painful debasement of humanity, injurious to the very concept itself. And although one may tend and nurse illness in the individual case, to honor it intellectually is an aberration—imprint that on your minds!—an aberration and the beginning of all intellectual aberrations.
Any symptom of illness was a masked form of love in action, and illness was merely transformed love.
One could no longer say that it thudded on its own accord, for no reason, and without any connection to his soul. There was a connection now, or at least it would not have been difficult to establish one—a justifiable emotion could easily be assigned to his body’s overwrought activity. Hans Castorp needed only to think of Frau Chauchat—and he did think of her—and his heart had a suitable emotion to make it pound.
“Illness makes people even more physical, turns them into only a body.”
“The only healthy and noble and indeed, let me expressly point out, the only religious way in which to regard death is to perceive and feel it as a constituent part of life, as life’s holy prerequisite, and not to separate it intellectually, to set it up in opposition to life, or, worse, to play it off against life in some disgusting fashion—for that is indeed the antithesis of a healthy, noble, reasonable, and religious view. […] Death is to be honored as the cradle of life, the womb of renewal. Once separated from life, it becomes grotesque, a wraith—or even worse. For as an independent spiritual power, death is a very depraved force, whose wicked attractions are very strong and without doubt can cause the most abominable confusion of the human mind.”
And Hans Castorp saw exactly what he should have expected to see, but which no man was ever intended to see and which he himself had never presumed he would be able to see: he saw his own grave. Under that light, he saw the process of corruption anticipated, saw the flesh in which he moved decomposed, expunged, dissolved into airy nothingness […] he beheld a familiar part of his body, and for the first time in his life he understood that he would die.
“Just listen, and tell me if it isn’t the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your life.”
“Well, my good engineer, how did you like the pomegranate?”
“Oh, you and your learning! You’re always learning up here—about biology and botany and slippery turning points. And you started in on ‘time’ your first day here. When what we’re here to do is to get healthier, not more clever—healthier, until we’re truly healthy, so they can finally let us go free and send us back to the flatlands cured.”
His form is logic, but his nature is confusion.
“Yes, you’re cured. The spot at the upper left isn’t worth talking about. Your temperature has nothing to do with it. I can’t tell you what causes that. I assume it’s of no further importance. As far as I’m concerned, you may leave.”
And that was the end of the attempt by the flatlands to reclaim Hans Castorp. The young man admitted quite openly to himself that such total failure, which he had seen coming, was of decisive importance for his relationship to the people down there. For the flatlands it meant a final shrug, the abandonment of any claim; for him, however, it meant freedom finally won, and by now his heart no longer fluttered at the thought.
Death is a great power. You take off your hat and tiptoe past his presence, rocking your way forward. […] Reason stands foolish before him, for reason is only virtue, but death is freedom and kicking over the traces, chaos and lust. Lust, my dream says, not love. Death and love—there is no rhyming them, that is a preposterous rhyme, a false rhyme. Love stands opposed to death—it alone, and not reason, is stronger than death. Only love, and not reason, yields kind thoughts. […] Oh, what a clear dream I’ve dreamed, how well I’ve ‘played king’! I will remember it. I will keep faith with death in my heart, but I will clearly remember that if faithfulness to death and to what is past rules our thoughts and deeds, that leads only to wickedness, dark lust, and hatred of humankind. For the sake of goodness and love, man shall grant death no dominion over his thoughts.
There were moments when, as you “played king,” you saw the intimation of a dream of love rising up out of death and this carnal body. And out of this worldwide festival of death, this ugly rutting fever that inflames the rainy evening sky all round—will love someday rise up out of this, too?