Have we lost that vital spirit of place?
The first paragraph John Fowles' 1965 novel The Magus concludes with the words "...I went to Oxford; and there I began to discover I was not the person I wanted to be". The Magus is sometimes criticised for being a rites of passage novel; which may or may not be the case. And even if it is there are some other very fine novels in that category: for instance J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. And other great artworks can also be interpreted as rites of passage: for instance Mahler's Fourth Symphony.
On the island of Brač off the coast from Split I discovered the idyllic deserted beach seen above, where I was able to swim alone and undisturbed day after day. It could easily have been the scene of this erotic episode in Fowles' novel:
In 1955 the situationist philosopher Guy Debord defined psychogeography as "the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographic environment, consciously organised or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals". While in his 1960 essay Landscape and Character another connoisseur of Mediterranean islands, Lawrence Durrell, wrote "the determinant of any culture is after all - the spirit of place". Similarities between the Villa Bourani in The Magus and the abandoned villa outside Milna on Brač are undoubtedly a pleasing coincidence. But they are also a fascinating example of how the environment influenced my emotions and behaviour. Have we lost that vital spirit of place? Is our current bleak culture a reflection of the abandoning of physical place for the virtual world?
I first read The Magus soon after its 1965 publication, and around the same time as a student I spent two summers on the Adriatic islands of what was then Yugoslavia. Much of the action of The Magus happens in and around the mysterious villa of Bourani on the fictional Greek island of Phraxos. It is known that the villa which is the lair of the magus in the novel was loosely based on the Villa Giacemia on the island of Spetses, which Fowles had visited. But that still did not prevent a sense of déjà vu when I returned to the Dalmatian islands recently after an absence of more than half a century.
'What was going to become of my life I didn't know; but lying there that day by the sea it didn't seem to matter much. To be was enough. I felt myself in suspension, waiting without fear for some impulse to drive me on. I turned on my stomach and made love to the memory of Alison, like an animal, without guilt or shame, a mere machine for sensation spread eagled on the earth. Then I ran across the burning stones into the sea'.
When I first stumbled on the cove, the fictional beach in the The Magus immediately sprang to mind. But the similarity ran much deeper: because set back from the beach is an abandoned villa.
Abandoned for a long time, the villa is set in vast but badly overgrown grounds. The surrounding slopes have been expensively terraced and are planted with a vast number of untended olive trees. On one of my hikes across the island I met a German lady whose parents are Croatian with property in the area. She explained that the villa and grounds were the work of a lady who was not a a native of the area. She had attempted to make the beach private; this had antagonised the locals who according to my informant are "as stubborn as mules". Shades of Conchis in The Magus, she had fallen out with the locals, the villa was abandoned and the grounds left to return to nature.
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