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The Prestige
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The Prestige

4.1 20
by Christopher Priest

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In 1878, two young stage magicians clash in the dark during the course of a fraudulent seance. From this moment on, their lives become webs of deceit and revelation as they vie to outwit and expose one another. Their rivalry will take them to the peaks of their careers, but with terrible consequences. In the course of pursuing each other's ruin, they will deploy all


In 1878, two young stage magicians clash in the dark during the course of a fraudulent seance. From this moment on, their lives become webs of deceit and revelation as they vie to outwit and expose one another. Their rivalry will take them to the peaks of their careers, but with terrible consequences. In the course of pursuing each other's ruin, they will deploy all the deception their magicians' craft can command--the highest misdirection and the darkest science.

Blood will be spilled, but it will not be enough. In the end, their legacy will pass on for generations...to descendants who must, for their sanity's sake, untangle the puzzle left to them

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
After a ten-year hiatus, Priest (The Glamour, 1985, etc.) returns in strength with a taut, twisting, prize-winning story of two magicians and their fierce fin-de-siècle rivalry that taints successive generations of their respective families.

A London journalist is brought to an English manor house by a ruse, there to meet a young woman who claims to have known him as a child—and to have watched him die at her father's hands. Baffled by these memories, the two join forces to plumb the written records of their ancestors, Alfred Borden and Rupert Angier, talented magicians who bore each other tremendous ill will. Their first clash came in 1878, as Borden, in an excess of zeal for the purity of the magician's craft, attempted to expose Angier as a fraud during a séance he and his wife were conducting. The attempt failed, but in the process Angier's pregnant wife was hurt and lost their baby, thereby prompting an unending feud between the men. Many ruined performances later, with both men having risen to prominence in their work, Borden seems at last to have gained the upper hand with his use of then-novel electricity to transport himself, inexplicably and instantaneously, from one part of a stage to another. Not to be outdone, Angier visits Colorado to meet with the eccentric master of electricity, Nikola Tesla, commissioning him to build a transporting device that will top Borden's act. In time he learns that his rival's trick is only an illusion while his is the real thing, and this fact creates a catastrophe that will reverberate through several generations when Borden again disrupts Angier's act by pulling the plug on Tesla's device at the worst possible moment.

Electrifying effects and a deft handling of mysteries and their explanations (some remaining tantalizingly incomplete) in an unexpectedly compelling fusion of weird science and legerdemain.

From the Publisher

“A brilliant conjuring act by one of the master illusionists of our time.” —Wired on The Prestige

“One of our most gifted writers.” —John Fowles on The Prestige

“Extraordinary--like a dazzling magic act!” —Entertainment Weekly on The Prestige

“A dizzying show of a novel....Imagine Possession rewritten by Barbara Vine, or Robertson Davies at his most smoothly diabolical. A brilliantly constructed entertainment!” —The Washington Post on The Prestige

“As ingenious as it is suspenseful.” —Newsday on The Prestige

“Nothing quite prepares you for the sinister complexity and imaginative flair of The Prestige . . . Magnificently eerie.” —Anthony Quinn, The Sunday Times

“Beautifully written . . . Two magicians vie with each other to create the perfect illusion: vanishing from one part of the stage and reappearing instantaneously in another. It's a story of utter fakery and scientific audacity. The pioneer of electrical power, Nikola Tesla, appears in a supporting role; to say more would reveal too much. Priest masters the merging of SF and mainstream, and The Prestige is his finest novel to date.” —New Scientist on The Prestige

“A taut, twisting, prize-winning story of two magicians and their fierce fin-de-siècle rivalry that taints successive generations of their respective families...An unexpectedly compelling fusion of weird science and legerdemain.” —Kirkus on The Prestige

“Remarkably akin to the style of the late Robertson Davies...Priest has brought it off with great imagination and skill.” —Publishers Weekly on The Prestige

“Hypnotic...The Prestige provides the satisfaction of an ambitious and well-told entertainment.” —San Francisco Chronicle

The Prestige is in every way a marvelously scary entertainment with one of the creepiest final revelations in recednt years. Don't miss the magic show!” —Gahan Wilson, Realms of Fantasy

“Just as a magic act should be: filled with haunting marvels.” —Time Out London on The Prestige

Product Details

Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
4.22(w) x 6.69(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

    It began on a train, heading north through England, although I was soon to discover that the story had really begun more than a hundred years earlier.

    I had no sense of any of this at the time: I was on company time, following up a report of an incident at a religious sect. On my lap lay the bulky envelope I had received from my father that morning, still unopened, because when Dad phoned to tell me about it my mind had been elsewhere. A bedroom door slamming, my girlfriend in the middle of walking out on me. 'Yes, Dad,' I had said, as Zelda stormed past with a boxful of my compact discs. 'Drop it in the mail, and I'll have a look.'

    After I had read the morning's edition of the Chronicle, and bought a sandwich and a cup of instant coffee from the refreshment trolley, I opened Dad's envelope. A large-format paperback book slipped out, with a note loose inside and a used envelope folded in half.

    The note said, 'Dear Andy, Here is the book I told you about. I think it was sent by the same woman who rang me. She asked me if I knew where you were. I'm enclosing the envelope the book arrived in. The postmark is a bit blurred, but maybe you can make it out. Your mother would love to know when you are coming to stay with us again. How about next weekend? With love, Dad.'

    At last I remembered some of my father's phonecall. He told me the book had arrived, and that the woman who had sent it appeared to be some kind of distant relative, because she had been talking about my family. I should have paid more attention tohim.

    Here, though, was the book. It was called Secret Methods of Magic, and the author was one Alfred Borden. To all appearances it was one of those instructional books of card tricks, sleight of hand, illusions involving silk scarves, and so on. The only aspect of it that interested me at first glance was that although it was a recently published paperback, the text itself appeared to be a facsimile of a much older edition: the typography, the illustrations, the chapter headings and the laboured writing style all suggested this.

    I couldn't see why I should be interested in such a book. Only the author's name was familiar: Borden was the surname I had been born with, although when I was adopted as a small child my name was changed to that of my adoptive parents. My name now, my full and legal name, is Andrew Westley, and although I have always known that I was adopted I grew up thinking of Duncan and Jillian Westley as Dad and Mum, loved them as parents, and behaved as their son. All this is still true. I feel nothing for my natural parents. I'm not curious about them or why they put me up for adoption, and have no wish ever to trace them now that I am an adult. All that is in my distant past, and they have always felt irrelevant to me.

    There is, though, one matter concerning my background that borders on the obsessive.

    I am certain or to be accurate almost certain, that I was born one of a pair of identical twins, and that my brother and I were separated at the time of adoption. I have no idea why this was done, nor where my brother might be, but I have always assumed that he was adopted at the same time as me. I only started to suspect his existence when I was entering my teens. By chance I came across a passage in a book, an adventure story, that described the way in which many pairs of twins are linked by an inexplicable, apparently psychic contact. Even when separated by hundreds of miles or living in different countries, such twins will share feelings of pain, surprise, happiness, depression, one twin sending to the other, and vice versa. Reading this was one of those moments in life when suddenly a lot of things become clear.

    All my life, as long as I can remember, I have had the feeling that someone else is sharing my life. As a child, with nothing to go on apart from the actual experience, I thought little of it and assumed everyone else had the same feelings. As I grew older, and I realized none of my friends was going through the same thing, it became a mystery. Reading the book therefore came as a great relief as it seemed to explain everything. I had a twin somewhere.

    The feeling of rapport is in some ways vague, a sense of being cared for, even watched over, but in others it is much more specific. The general feeling is of a constant background, while more direct 'messages' come only occasionally. These are acute and precise, even though the actual communication is invariably non-verbal.

    Once or twice when I have been drunk, for example, I have felt my brother's consternation growing in me, a fear that I might come to some harm. On one of these occasions, when I was leaving a party late at night and was about to drive myself home, the flash of concern that reached me was so powerful I felt myself sobering up! I tried describing this at the time to the friends I was with, but they joked it away. Even so I drove home inexplicably sober that night.

    In turn, I have sometimes sensed my brother in pain, or frightened, or threatened in some way, and have been able to 'send' feelings of calm, or sympathy, or reassurance towards him. It is a psychic mechanism I can use without understanding it. No one to my knowledge has ever satisfactorily explained it, even though it is common and well documented.

    There is in my case, however, an extra mystery.

    Not only have I never been able to trace my brother, as far as records are concerned I never had a brother of any kind, let alone a twin. I do have intermittent memories of my life before adoption, although I was only three when that happened, and I can't remember my brother at all. Dad and Mum knew nothing about it; they have told me that when they adopted me there was no suggestion of my having a brother.

    As an adoptee you have certain legal rights. The most important of these is protection from your natural parents: they cannot contact you by any legal means. Another right is that when you reach adulthood you are able to ask about some of the circumstances surrounding your adoption. You can find out the names of your natural parents, for instance, and the address of the court of law where the adoption was made, and therefore where relevant records can be examined.

    I followed all this up soon after my eighteenth birthday, anxious to find out what I could about my brother. The adoption agency referred me to Ealing County Court where the papers were kept, and here I discovered that I had been put up for adoption by my father, whose name was Clive Alexander Borden. My mother's name was Diana Ruth Borden (nee Ellington), but she had died soon after I was born. I assumed that the adoption happened because of her death, but in fact I was not adopted for more than two years after she died, during which period my father brought me up by himself. My own original name was Nicholas Julius Borden. There was nothing about any other child, adopted or otherwise.

    I later checked birth records at St Catherine's House in London, but these confirmed I was the Bordens' only child.

    Even so, my psychic contacts with my twin remained through all this, and have continued ever since.


The book had been published in the USA by Dover Publications, and was a handsome, well-made paperback. The cover painting depicted a dinner-jacketed stage magician pointing his hands expressively towards a wooden cabinet, from which a young lady was emerging. She was wearing a dazzling smile and a costume which for the period was probably considered saucy.

    Under the author's name was printed: 'Edited and annotated by Lord Colderdale.'

    At the bottom of the cover, in bold white lettering, was the blurb: 'The Famous Oath-Protected Book of Secrets'.

    A longer and much more descriptive blurb on the back cover went into greater detail:

Originally published as a strictly limited edition in 1905 in London, this book was sold only to professional magicians who were prepared to swear an oath of secrecy about its contents. First edition copies are now exceedingly rare, and virtually impossible for general readers to obtain.

Made publicly available for the first time, this new edition is completely unabridged and contains all the original illustrations, as well as the notes and supplementary text provided by Britain's Earl of Colderdale, a noted contemporary amateur of magic.

The author is Alfred Borden, inventor of the legendary illusion The New Transported Man. Borden, whose stage name was Le Professeur de la Magie, was in the first decade of this century the leading stage illusionist. Encouraged in his early years by John Henry Anderson, and as a protege of Nevil Maskelyne's, Borden was a contemporary of Houdini, David Devant, Chung Ling Soo and Buatier de Kolta. He was based in London, England, but frequently toured the United States and Europe.

While not strictly speaking an instruction manual, this book with its broad understanding of magical methods will give both laymen and professionals startling insights into the mind of one of the greatest magicians who ever lived.

    It was amusing to discover that one of my ancestors had been a magician, but I had no special interest in the subject. I happen to find some kinds of conjuring tedious; card tricks, especially, but many others too. The illusions you sometimes see on television are impressive, but I have never felt curious about how the effects are in fact achieved. I remember someone once saying that the trouble with magic was that the more a magician protects his secrets, the more banal they turn out to be.

     Alfred Borden's book contained a long section on card tricks, and another described tricks with cigarettes and coins. Explanatory drawings and instructions accompanied each one. At the back of the book was a chapter about stage illusions, with many illustrations of cabinets with hidden compartments, boxes with false bottoms, tables with lifting devices concealed behind curtains, and other apparatus. I glanced through some of these pages.

    The first half of the book was not illustrated, but consisted of a long account of the author's life and outlook on magic. It began with the following words:

'I write in the year 1901.

    'My name, my real name, is Alfred Borden. The story of my life is the story of the secrets by which I have lived my life. They are described in this narrative for the first and last time; this is the only extant copy.

    'I was born in 1856 on the eighth day of the month of May, in the coastal town of Hastings. I was a healthy, vigorous child. My father was a tradesman of that borough, a master wheelwright and cooper. Our house—'

    I briefly imagined the writer of this book settling down to begin his memoir. For no exact reason I visualized him as a tall, dark-haired man, stern-faced and bearded, slightly hunched, wearing narrow reading glasses, working in a pool of light thrown by a solitary lamp placed next to his elbow. I imagined the rest of the household in a deferential silence, leaving the master in peace while he wrote. The reality was no doubt different, but stereotypes of our forebears are difficult to throw off.

    I wondered what relation Alfred Borden would be to me. If the line of descent was direct, in other words if he wasn't a cousin or an uncle, then he would be my great- or great-great-grandfather. If he was born in 1856, he would have been in his middle forties when he wrote the book; it seemed likely he was therefore not my father's father, but of an earlier generation.

    The Introduction was written in much the same style as the main text, with several long explanations about how the book came into being. The book appeared to be based on Borden's private notebook, not intended for publication. Colderdale had considerably expanded and clarified the narrative, and added the descriptions of most of the tricks. There was no extra biographical information about Borden, but presumably I would find some if I read the whole book.

    I couldn't see how the book was going to tell me anything about my brother. He remained my only interest in my natural family.

    At this point my mobile phone began beeping. I answered it quickly, knowing how other train passengers can be irritated by these things. It was Sonja, the secretary of my editor, Len Wickham. I suspected at once that Len had got her to call me, to make sure I was on the train.

    'Andy, there's been a change of plan about the car,' she said. 'Eric Lambert had to take it in for a repair to the brakes, so it's in a garage.'

    She gave me the address. It was the availability of this car in Sheffield, a high-mileage Ford renowned for frequent breakdowns, that prevented me from driving up in my own car. Len wouldn't authorize the expenses if a company car was on hand.

     'Did Uncle say anything else?' I said.

    'Such as?'

    'This story's still on?'


    'Has anything else come in from the agencies?'

    'We've had a faxed confirmation from the State Penitentiary in California. Franklin is still a prisoner.'

    'All right.'

    We hung up. While I was still holding the phone I punched in my parents' number, and spoke to my father. I told him I was on my way to Sheffield, would be driving from there into the Peak District and if it was OK with them (of course it would be) I could come and stay the night. My father sounded pleased. He and Jillian still lived in Wilmslow, Cheshire, and now I was working in London my trips to see them were infrequent.

    I told him I had received the book.

    'Have you any idea why it was sent to you?' he said.

    'Not the faintest.'

    'Are you going to read it?'

    'It's not my sort of thing. I'll look through it one day.' 'I noticed it was written by someone called Borden.'

    'Yes. Did she say anything about that?'

    'No. I don't think so.'

    After we had hung up I put the book in my case and stared through the train window at the passing countryside. The sky was grey, and rain was streaking the glass. I had to concentrate on the incident I was being sent to investigate. I worked for the Chronicle, specifically as a general features writer, a label which was grander than the reality. The true state of affairs was that Dad was himself a newspaperman, and had formerly worked for the Manchester Evening Post, a sister paper to the Chronicle. It was a matter of pride to him that I had obtained the job, even though I have always suspected him of pulling strings for me. I am not a fluent journalist, and have not done well in the training programme I have been following. One of my serious long-term worries is that one day I am going to have to explain to my father why I have quit what he considers to be a prestigious job on the greatest British newspaper.

    In the meantime, I struggle unwillingly on. Covering the incident I was travelling to was partly the consequence of another story I had filed several months earlier, about a group of UFO enthusiasts. Since then Len Wickham, my supervising editor, had assigned me to any story that involved witches' covens, levitation, spontaneous combustion, crop circles, and other fringe subjects. In most cases, I had already discovered, once you went into these things properly there was generally not much to say about them, and remarkably few of the stories I filed were ever printed. Even so, Wickham continued to send me off to cover them.

    There was an extra twist this time. With some relish, Wickham informed me that someone from the sect had phoned to ask if the Chronicle was planning to cover the story, and if so had asked for me in person. They had seen some of my earlier articles, thought I showed the right degree of honest scepticism, and could therefore be relied on for a forthright article. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, it seemed likely to prove yet another dud.

    A Californian religious sect called the Rapturous Church of Christ Jesus had established a community in a large country house in a Derbyshire village. One of the women members had died of natural causes a few days earlier. Her GP was present, as was her daughter. As she lay paralysed, on the point of death, a man had entered the room. He stood beside the bed and made soothing gestures with his hands. The woman died soon after, and the man immediately left the room without speaking to the other two. He was not seen afterwards. He had been recognized by the woman's daughter, and by two members of the sect who had come into the room while he was there, as the man who had founded the sect. This was Father Patrick Franklin, and the sect had grown up around him because of his claimed ability to bilocate.

    The incident was newsworthy for two reasons. It was the first of Franklin's bilocations to have been witnessed by non-members of the sect, one of whom happened to be a professional woman with a local reputation. And the other reason was that Franklin's whereabouts on the day in question could be firmly established: he was known to be an inmate of the California State Penitentiary, and as Sonja had just confirmed to me on the phone he was still there.

Meet the Author

Christopher Priest lives in England.

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Prestige 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 20 reviews.
Les_Livres More than 1 year ago
" The Prestige by Christopher Priest is the story of a feud between two stage magicians, around the beginning of the 20th century (mostly) in England. Rupert Angier (stage name "The Great Danton") and Alfred Borden (Le Professeur de la Magie) spend almost as much time retaliating against and spying on each other as they do rehearsing and improving their illusions. It all starts when Borden interrupts a seance being held by Angier. He later regrets his actions, but to Angier, it is unforgivable. The rest of their lives are spent trying to sabotage each other's shows, and when Borden begins performing an illusion he calls The New Transported Man, Angier will stop at nothing to discover the secret to the performance and improve upon it for use in his own act. ..." (For full review, please visit me, Les Livres, on Blogger!)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Wow this book was great i never thought there could be so many twist in a book and it was very well written. At times it was a little slow but this was a very good book that will get you caught up in the magic that this book delivers i recommend this to everyone!
Guest More than 1 year ago
the twist and terns will take you for a ride to remember to the day you die! the book had a story line like no other!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
It's funny how things work out sometimes. I know I have had 'The Prestige' lying around for a while to be read, but when I finally did get around to reading it last month, the sales slip that I routinely keep in my books to date when I purchased them said I bought it on February 5, 1998 -- and so, so much has passed in my life since then, so I think it's only appropriate how this book so amazingly looks backwards into the bygone era of magic. It's amazing how wistful also this book has made me for the era of the classic magician and prestidigitator resplendent in tuxedoes, best exemplified by someone like Mark Wilson, now that we are in an age of either flashy showmen such as David Copperfield or the down-and-dirty 'street magician' like David Blaine 'who's really from my hometown, I must add' and Criss Angel. At any rate, 'The Prestige' is simply a well-written, wonderfully-paced novel, a snapshot of 19th Century life with all its centering on arcane science, somewhat-hypocritical morals, and fascination with the paranormal. Nikola Tesla's presence, while unannounced in the blurb, was very welcome, and I must say that, much like the entire novel, I was pleased that his presence did not insult my intelligence, leaving me to draw my own conclusions on the extent of his scientific acumen and achievements and not at all painting him as a cult figure one step removed from Aleister Crowley. Yes, this can be a challenging book to read -- just who is Alfred Borden, for example? -- but as I said, Christopher Priest will not hit you over the head bluntly with easy answers, instead letting you formulate your own. Overall, I cannot recommend this novel enough, and I now wait with bated breath to see the movie, although I cannot imagine how even such sublime actors as Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale can top this book. Not quite horror, not quite science fiction (let alone steampunk), not quite merely a character study or documentary of 19th Century magic, all I can deem 'The Prestige' is...highly recommended.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Chronicle reporter Andrew Wesley receives the book, Secret Methods of Magic by Alfred Borden, from his adopted father who said a woman asked him to forward it to him. A note from K. Angier is sent to his editor offering information to Andrew on newsworthy Father Franklin. K. is Lady Katherine who sent him the Borden book she claims they knew each other as children and that her father killed him. He has been haunted by similar memories feeling he shares his body with someone else. They team up looking at their respective family trees seeking the links. --- Alfred Borden fanatically exposes those magicians he considers a fraud. In 1878, Alfred tries to prove that talented Rupert Angier is a con artist at a séance that the latter and his spouse host. During a melee, the zealot pushes Rupert¿s pregnant wife causing a miscarriage. Outraged Rupert vows vengeance. As both rise in popularity, Alfred learns how to use the new science of electricity to transport from one spot to another. Rupert travels to Colorado to obtain the help of reclusive electricity guru Nicola Tesla. While Alfred¿s stunt is a parlor trick Rupert obtains the genuine article. However, tragedy hits their descendents including Andrew and Katherine when Alfred pulls the plug on Tesla¿s gizmo as Rupert performs the stunt. --- This exciting time paradoxical award winning thriller hooks the audience once the story line reverts to the mid nineteenth century and keeps readers guessing as to what is going on and will happen. The cast past and present are fully developed so that the feud between Rupert and Alfred feels so real that in turn makes them human and the curiosity of their descendents to learn the truth also feels genuine. Fans will appreciate the amateur sleuth modern day subplot and the companion historical science fiction that blends into a superb thriller. --- Harriet Klausner
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Prestige is a wonder for any who can love the art of fiction, and revel in its craft. Focusing on two victorian stage magicians, the real magic is how Priest convincingly fools the reader through his narrative, while admitting to the reader he is misdirecting them. The characters are well built, and intruguing, and Priest drives an old fashioned plot by hinging it to the character's modern descendants. But what I found most invigorating was that the ending revelation brought relevance to the beginning of the book. It was a great reward for a beginning that had, at first glance appeared to be slow going. Yet, on every parade a little rain must fall. Priest's science is unexplained and confusing. It does not make up a large section of the book, but hard-core science fiction fans will be dissapointed. His prose is tremendously well crafted and carefully built, but his science needs more research. If you can look past that point, and believe that the slower parts of the book are necesary for the ending reward, this book is not only a fabulous read, but one to read again and again.
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