I really wanted to feel the magic while reading this book, but never did. Maybe the narrative told me too many times that the Night Circus was magical, so my feisty side started to doubt. Maybe the omniscient narrator kept me just a little too distant from a more compassionate sharing with the plight of the characters. It could be that the historical timeframe of the novel never quite resonated with the personalities and attitudes of what seemed to me modern-minded characters. But I suspect it was the circus, itself, which never grew fully to its own as a character. Although I did develop a certain amount of caring for the humans who relied upon its existence, I never felt like the circus, itself, was a living, breathing, magical entity that I longed to attend, get lost in, whose fate seemed vital to me. I knew more about the way characters felt about the circus than the way I felt about it- always felt as though I had heard about, but never really experienced it. It was a cool story, but for me failed to create that fictional magic of making me feel as though I'd spent time wandering through the Night Circus.