J.G.'s Review - Wolf Hall (2009 Winner) and Bring Up the Bodies (2012 Winner) by Hilary Mantel

I spent a lot of time with Thomas Cromwell in July, and now that he's gone away, I miss him.

My quest to read all the Man Booker Prize winners led me to Wolf Hall (2009) and Bring Up the Bodies (2012), both by Hilary Mantel. I'm not a big fan of historical novels in general, nor am I well-versed in the politics and romances of Henry VIII in 1520s England and Europe. That said, I thoroughly enjoyed these two books.

Mantel's portrayal of Thomas Cromwell stands out as a major factor in my enjoyment. Wolf Hall opens with a savage scene in which the teenaged Cromwell receives a beating from his father, but (fortunately for me, as I was not looking forward to any more scenes like that) the beating motivates Cromwell to leave home, launching him on the winding road of his political career. It's the first of many personal incidents that inform Cromwell's public life. Somehow, in Mantel's portrayal, Cromwell keeps a core of kindness and compassion for those closest to him, not to mention random strangers, while moving in the highest, most precarious, most vicious political circles. This humanity saves Cromwell from being just another political tool sans moral compass and these novels from being just another rehash of historical events.

Wolf Hall tells the story of Henry VIII's obsession with producing a male heir, an obsession with huge political, personal, and religious implications. Henry's insistence on annulling his marriage to Katherine of Aragon, freeing him to marry Anne Boleyn, creates ripples across England and across Europe. As Henry's advisor, Cardinal Wolsey, descends from favor, Cromwell's influence grows. It's a tribute to Cromwell's genius and subtlety that he's able to remain personally loyal to his mentor Wolsey while becoming one of Henry's most trusted counselors.

Bring Up the Bodies continues the saga. Henry has waited seven difficult years -- while his personal desires destabilize international alliances and destroy religious institutions -- to marry Boleyn. However, prize achieved, he becomes disenchanted with her rather quickly, due to the same qualities of wit and willfulness that he initially found irresistible. Even more importantly from a political perspective, she seems unable to produce a male heir. At Henry's request, Cromwell engineers Boleyn's fall, while Henry's fancy turns to Jane Seymour. Regardless of my modern-day disapproval of Henry's behavior and the power of monarchy, Mantel manages to leave me in awe of Cromwell's smooth political machinations. And he's just so darn likeable, even while using Henry's request to seek revenge upon Wolsey's enemies. Amidst the events of his political life, Cromwell's personal memories, motivations, and pleasures remain part of the story.

At times, Mantel compresses a lot of action and meaning into a few paragraphs. At other times, she draws an incident out at length, giving its implications time to sink in -- a very important skill when court intrigues are involved, as they often are. The result is a novel that breathes, expanding and contracting as the story unwinds. Domestic events in the Cromwell household intertwine with the historical record, adding contrast, richness, and depth. Mantel has a knack for making characters come alive.

My enjoyment of Mantel's storyline may have been enhanced by my relative ignorance of the details of Henry VIII's time. If I knew more about the chain of events or that era in general, perhaps I might have noticed something inaccurate. (There are certainly those who feel her work is a rehabilitation of Cromwell that he doesn't deserve.) However, Mantel is such a masterful writer, clearly in control of her craft, that I doubt she makes any significant errors. Her cultural references are effortlessly natural; she portrays the times without ever appearing to insert detail just for effect.

Others have remarked on one stylistic difficulty with Mantel's writing: her tendency to use an untethered "he," making the reading a bit difficult in places. "He" is almost always Cromwell himself, which blends first person and third person nicely when it gives the reader intimate access to his thoughts and feelings. But occasionally "he" is someone else in the  very next sentence -- and that brings you up short in a passage, requiring a pause to figure out who is speaking or being described. Mantel helps sometimes by saying "He, Cromwell," an effective if somewhat clumsy method of clarification. Overall, it's not a major sticking point. Over hundreds of pages, you get used to it.

Weeks after finishing these novels, I am still thinking about Cromwell. Fortunately Mantel plans to write another novel about the remainder of his life. Whether her sympathetic portrayal is accurate or not, it's been a long time since I enjoyed the company of such an intelligent, charming, kind, dangerous character. Meeting such a person in fiction is nothing but pleasurable. Although in real life I would run fast and far from Cromwell, I look forward to seeing him again on the page.

(Crossposted from Hotchpot Cafe, where books are always on the menu but aren't the only fare.)

Excerpt, from a meeting with Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, at Cromwell's home:

The door opens; it is Alice bringing in lights. "This is your daughter?"

Rather than explain his family, he says, "This is my lovely Alice. This is not your job, Alice?"

She bobs, a small genuflection to a churchman. "No, but Rafe and the others want to know what you are talking about so long. They are waiting to know if there will be a dispatch to the cardinal tonight. Jo is standing by with her needle and thread."

"Tell them I will write in my own hand, and we will send it tomorrow. Jo may go to bed."

"Oh, we are not going to bed. We are running Gregory's greyhounds up and down the hall and making a noise fit to wake the dead."

"I can see why you don't want to break off."

"Yes, it is excellent," Alice says. "We have the manners of scullery maids and no one will ever want to marry us. If our aunt Mercy had behaved like us when she was a girl, she would have been knocked round the head till she bled from the ears."

"Then we live in happy times," he says.

When she has gone, and the door is closed behind her, Cranmer says, "The children are not whipped?"

"We try to teach them by example, as Erasmus suggests, though we all like to race the dogs up and down and make a noise, so we are not doing very well in that regard." He does not know if he should smile; he has Gregory; he has Alice, and Johane and the child Jo, and in the corner of his eye, at the periphery of his vision, the little pale girl who spies on the Boleyns. He has hawks in his mews who move toward the sound of his voice. What has this man?

"I think of the king's advisers," Dr. Cranmer says. "The sort of men who are about him now."

And he has the cardinal, if the cardinal still thinks well of him after all that has passed.

J.G.'s Review - The Gathering

It's not often that a book lies as heavily on my thoughts while I'm reading it as this one did.

Enright's tale of nine surviving siblings who have gathered for their brother's funeral, while still acting out against each other, resuming old battles and settling old scores, is searing. The novel focuses on Veronica, the "responsible sister," who bears up under her brother Liam's funeral details as best she can, while nearly-forgotten memories of childhood events come back to her, perhaps explaining Liam's suicide. At the same time, Veronica must face up to her failing marriage and her own near-collapse. All this while her dysfunctional adult family swirls around her, hardly a grown-up among them.

This family portrait shows that it's sometimes a near-miracle that we survive our families at all. And yet, even with such formative emotional marks against her, Veronica makes progress toward the kind of wholeness that adulthood is supposed to bring.

Enright writes very well, seamlessly moving her characters through space and time with a sure hand for tone and clarity. She is able to pull the bigger picture into focus with an economy of words that never draws attention to the technique itself.

All the same, while the craft is there, the subject matter is bleak and for me, not outweighed by the resolution. Truly, it's better not to have siblings, if having siblings is like this.

For more about this book, including an excerpt, please visit my blog, Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - The Line of Beauty

I'm rather ambivalent about this book. My opinion of it kept changing as I was reading it, and still hasn't gelled much in either direction. Not really a good sign.

The story concerns Nick Guest, a young Oxford graduate who seems rather directionless in life. After finishing school, he moves in with the family of a classmate, although he and the classmate don't seem to know each other very well. Much of the motivation for Nick is his yearning for a romance with his chum, something the chum (not being gay himself) seems hardly to notice. Meanwhile, the chum's father is a member of Parliament, the chum's mother is quite charming, and the chum's sister is both emotionally unstable and highly insightful about the family's foibles and shortcomings. Despite the differences between the Feddens family and his own, Nick blends in sufficiently to seem less friend or house guest than part of the furniture.

This down-the-rabbit-hole, everything-stands-on-its-head quality of Nick's transition from a lower-middle-class upbringing into the minefield milieu of the highest classes of the land explains why the epigraph for this novel is drawn from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The author masterfully reminds us of the connection throughout the novel, without ever seeming clumsy or heavy-handed about it.

Against the backdrop of 1980's family and national politics, Nick comes to terms with his homosexuality, though he never officially comes out of the closet. He has artistic aspirations and a highly evolved sensibility for the finer things in life (most of which money can buy, starting with cocaine and moving on to things like nice cars and a private wine cellar), but not much ambition. He experiences a clandestine first love, then moves on to a very wealthy lover, a progression of relationships that echoes the gay scene of the day: cautious exploration, followed by enthusiastic promiscuity, followed by the decimation of AIDS.

In the first section of the book, I rather quickly grew tired of the amount of sexual content. It wasn't especially graphic, but the references were relentless. I found myself wishing that Nick could, say, walk to the corner to post a letter without thinking about having sex with every man he passed on the street. Soon enough, however, the story line turned to politics and I found myself longing for a little sexual innuendo to liven things up again.

Eventually the personal and political story lines converge, with life-changing consequences for Nick. I found the ending of this book terribly gray and sad, perhaps because the shift was inevitable. No matter how well one blends in, one can't stay in the looking-glass world forever.

Excerpt (Nick waits for his friend's father to arrive home on election night):

Nick topped up his drink and went out onto the balcony. He rallied to the surprising chill out there. Gerald's close shave at the ballot box was a drama and an embarrassment, and it was going to be hard to know what to say when he got home. Congratulations might sound sarcastic or unduly blithe, even to Gerald. Anyway, he was in, and everything could go on as planned. His gleaming grin floated against the dark trees for a while, and then faded, as perishable as all news. Slowly the trees themselves took on shape and detail in the light from the houses and from the softly reflecting night clouds. Nick loved the gardens; when he strolled between the house and the gardens through the private gate he seemed to glance up at his own good luck, in the towering planes on one side and the white-stuccoed cliff on the other. It would be good to be out there now; but it was too dripping and cold. There were wonderful expanses of summer ahead, no need to panic.

Note: this review is also posted on my blog, Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - Last Orders

I didn't expect to like this book so much. Somehow it became linked in my mind with The Old Devils, which I really didn't enjoy. Maybe it was the barroom association? Anyway, I approached my reading as though it was a flu shot: with a robust sense of taking my medicine and getting it over with. (Check off another Booker Prize winner for me!)

The story is a conglomerate of the voices and perspectives of a group of men who have been friends and neighbors for many years, through coming of age in World War II, returning to civilian lives, and establishing careers and families. While each has had his own story--Lenny the produce vendor, Vic the funeral director, Ray the insurance man and proverbially lucky horseplayer--their lives have been lived collectively, too. Now they embark on a road trip to perform a task that inaugurates a new phase in their shared lives: scattering the ashes of Jack the butcher, the first of their group to die. They are joined by Jack's adopted son Vince, who adds plenty of resentment to the emotional mix.

Each small chapter of this book is told by a different member of the group, as they progress on their journey to the sea. A few other female relatives and Jack's wife Amy also chime in at times, although they are not along for the ride. Amy has declined to participate in the scattering (and technically Jack's "last orders" didn't say who should do the scattering), but as the story unfolds, Amy's perspective becomes especially important, so it's appropriate that she also have her say.

Along the journey, amid stops at the pub ("last orders" also means "last call"), gallows humor, unexpected detours, and even a fistfight, lots of secrets are revealed. The details of unusual family ties, adultery, marital conflicts, money troubles, coincidences, and true motivations all come out as the characters alternate interior monologues and conversations with each other. They are at times evasive, at times filled with denial, and at times groping toward honesty and insight. Although it's apparent to the reader that they have muddled their lives, they don't seem to grasp that themselves. They just muddle on.

The characters' voices did not seem entirely distinct to me, but their perspectives always were. The narrative's time frames flow from the present journey to past events and back again, in anything but chronological order. Only the reader can fully see how the pieces all fit together. It's a shifting mosaic, but somehow it seems more elegant than choppy. Generally I dislike this kind of piecemeal technique, but here, it works. By the end, the love and friendship between these flawed men and their dedication to Jack's final request are surprisingly moving. Maybe minor, maybe tarnished, but that's all they've got.

Excerpt (Ray remembers visiting Jack in the hospital):

He said, "So now I know, Raysy."

It was a full day and a half after the operation that wasn't no operation, so he wasn't groggy and slow and confused any more. Sharp and clear as I've ever seen him, sitting up there in that little white smock thing, with the extra tubes going in, some round the back now. It seemed like every day they rigged up another tube. . . .

But he was sitting up, straight and steady. I thought, It's like he's having his portrait done, his last portrait, no flattering, no prettying, and no one knows how long it will take. Two weeks, three. Nothing to do but sit still and be who you are.

Note: this review is also posted on my blog, Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - Midnight's Children

Sadly, not my cup of tea. This unruly, exuberant, at times fantastic (in the magical realism sense) novel was just too too much for my taste. I won't dispute that it's probably my own darn fault that I didn't get it; I don't know nearly enough about India's religions, culture, and politics. But it blunted my enjoyment to feel almost the entire time that I was missing various pieces of information that would have allowed me to understand it much better.

Rushdie's narrator, Saleem Sinai, tells his family's story, both to the listening ear of a fictional female companion who is both caretaker and fiancee, and in the guise of writing the book itself. This framing device lends some structure to what is otherwise a sprawling multi-generational tale. How sprawling is it? Wikipedia lists 89 characters for its 533 pages.

Saleem's tale is filled with fanciful details, such as a couple who live happily in a basement, accessed through a hole in the floor concealed by a carpet; his enormous nose and enhanced sense of smell that allows him to smell emotions; a sister who sets fire to shoes; prophesies, supernatural powers, switched babies and renamings; and his murderous arch-enemy Shiva who kills by squeezing victims with his knees. All this against the political and social backdrop of India's birth to independence from colonial rule. It's a story as detailed and intricate as any embroidered sari.

Still, this novel missed the mark with me (and perhaps the target is somewhat to blame). I had trouble connecting the dots, I like my literature more neatly organized, and I kept thinking of J.R.R. Tolkien, who said, "I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence."

I'm sure many adore it -- after all, it won both the Man Booker Prize and the James Tait Black Prize (it's my double winner for the Battle of the Prizes: British Version), and was voted Best of the Bookers. I won't dispute that it probably deserves adoration. All I'm saying is that it just didn't happen for me.

Excerpt:

She had spent the morning alone with giggling Zohra and the echoes of the name Ravana, not knowing what was happening out there at the industrial estate, letting her mind linger upon the way the whole world seemed to be going mad; and when the screaming started and Zohra--before she could be stopped--joined in, something hardened inside her, some realization that she was her father's daughter, some ghost-memory of Nadir Khan hiding from crescent knives in a cornfield, some irritation of her nasal passages, and she went downstairs to the rescue, although Zohra screeched, "What are you doing, sisterji, that mad beast, for God, don't let him in here, have your brains gone raw?" . . . My mother opened the door and Lifafa Das fell in.

Note: this review is also posted on my blog, Hotchpot Cafe, along with reviews of various other Booker and non-Booker books.

J.G.'s Review - Sacred Hunger

This book snuck up on me. Given its plot -- an English merchant sends a ship into the Golden Triangle of 1750s slavery, taking trade goods to Africa, bartering for slaves there and transporting them to the New World, and planning to return to England with rum or sugar -- I was not eager to read it. It promised to be a long slog of 630 pages, made essential by my quest to read all the Booker winners and my participation in the Battle of the Prizes - British Version.

Instead, this book turned out to be a rare joy. It is handsomely crafted, with a nice framing device, the thorough but not leaden flavor of historical research, and interesting and thoroughly humanized characters, including Erasmus Kemp, the son of the ship's owner, eager to make his way in his father's world of commerce, and Matthew Paris, Kemp's disgraced cousin who travels on the ship as its doctor and conscience. Unexpected twists and turns lead to a splendid mystery/confrontation/resolution that involves my very own backyard of colonial Spanish Florida.

I read all this with growing excitement that a prize-winning English novel could smoothly devolve from Liverpool via Africa to my home state, within the same general fictional time frame as other books I am eager to read (Bartram's Travels and Hitt's Wekiva triology). All roads lead to Florida's wilderness for me these days.

Even if you are not similarly enthralled by Florida, this novel offers a rich reading experience far beyond the events of its plot. The fate of the Liverpool Merchant turns out to involve the varying motivations of men of commerce, the challenges of navigating social conventions when they contradict one's own beliefs, and the possible perfectibility of human social and personal relationships in a primitive paradise. Unsworth's ability to stay true to his tale while skillfully exploring these larger issues makes this novel one of the Booker's best.

Excerpt:

Hughes the climber, on lookout in the crow's nest, heard the shouted orders and felt the ship quiver through her length as she was brought closer to the wind. A mackerel sky was building to westward, with dark banks of stormbreeders low on the horizon. But there was some sun still, lying flat on the sea. He watched the gulls which earlier that day had found the ship. They were following on the starboard side, fewer now, but in good number still, which made him think they were in for no more than light squalls. . . . He noted again how the birds rode the wind, how the dying sun flashed on their breasts. Below them the sea was riven with gashes. The wind was rising. He looked away from the birds at last, to eastward. The horizon on that side was pale and clear still and Hughes saw, faint and ragged but unmistakable, the shapes of land. He cupped hands to mouth and bawled the fact to the darkening sky.

Note: this review is also posted on my blog, Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s List - The Complete Booker 2011 Challenge

This is the perfect challenge for me, ensuring that my ongoing quest to read all the Man Booker winners doesn't drown in a sea of challenges.

This year I’ll be participating at the Pick-a-Mix of Six level, reading 6 winners.

1. The Ghost Road – Pat Barker

2. The True History of the Kelly Gang – Peter Carey

3. Disgrace – J.M. Coetzee

4. Life and Times of Michael K – J.M. Coetzee. I’ve been kind of avoiding Coetzee, and I’m not sure why. This year, it's a double shot instead.

5. Wolf Hall – Hilary Mantel. I substituted another book for this one in December last year, because it is a long book and I was afraid I would bog down in it and not meet my challenge goal. So I am considering starting with it this year, just to be sure I get it done.

6. Vernon God Little – D.C.B. Pierre. This one came off the list at the 11th hour last year, too. I am not looking forward to it, based on the subject matter (a school shooting), but would like to get it over with.

For a slightly different take on this challenge, visit my blog here.

Happy reading, everyone!

J.G.'s Review - How Late It Was, How Late

This was a strange book that grew on me. The dialect and (shall we say?) colloquialisms of the language were difficult. The convoluted plotting was difficult. Most importantly, I was never confident that Sammy--protagonist, narrator, petty criminal, dim bulb Everyman--was telling the truth about his mysterious blindness, his girlfriend who disappeared, the political activities of the friends he was mixed up with, or what he'd been up to during his drinking binge while he was supposedly blacked out.

I guess I was just as blind as he was, although I spent a whole lot of time searching for clues among his rambling narrative and hoping the last few pages would produce a revelation in which all would become clear.

By the end, I felt sad that Sammy couldn't seem to salvage his relationship with his son or come to any other resolution about anything. We were both clueless together.

For more details about this reading experience, check out my review at Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - The Siege of Krishnapur

This is one of the good ones. All prizewinners have some kind of seal of approval, which is why they can be read with confidence, but they aren't all home runs. This one, however, is everything a novel should be.

The colonial British occupy their station at Krishnapur with the supreme confidence that comes from their firm (though misguided) belief in their social, moral and technological superiority. But all that changes in short order when they come under siege from Indian soldiers who have revolted against British rule. As the siege grinds on, what starts as a temporary adventure devolves into serious hardship that threatens the entire colony with death from starvation, disease, or attack. Throughout it all, the British carry on. Their confidence in Victorian civilization gives them a tremendous strength of character.

Against this background, themes dealing with art, education, scientific progress, and morality play out through the interests and intrigues of the various characters. One of the best things about this novel is that it would be easy to ignore all the themes and symbols, and simply enjoy the gripping, adventurous plot. But there are plenty of deeper meanings to be teased out, if the reader is so inclined.

Farrell inserts a fair amount of humor--difficult as that is to believe, given the subject matter--and plenty of compassion for his characters, while refusing to sugar-coat their inability to self-evaluate and overcome their own shortcomings. Knowing the flaws in their beliefs doesn't keep the reader from caring about the characters, wanting to see them rescued, and hoping they will learn from their experience.

For more (highly enthusiastic) information, see my review at Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - G.

Add me to the list of people who really didn't get this novel. I've read enough about it to understand that it's a "novel of ideas," whatever that means, and I know other people have found it "luminous" and "interesting" and "inventive"--all of which are rather non-specific compliments that fail to explain exactly what makes it so good.

But, alas, it's not for me. Although the book purports to tell the story of the life of G., a Don Juan pursuing his seductive arts against the backdrop of World War I and early 20th Century European events, for me the shifting subjects and digressions were so many screens through which it was difficult to view the action.

Of course, a novel doesn't have to be plot-driven to succeed. It's just that the novel's traditional coherencies make the experience of reading so much better for me. I'm sure Berger was deliberately flaunting these conventions, and good for him that he won a prize while doing so.

For more about this book, see my review at Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

This is one of those time-traveling books that take the reader of his or her own life and plop them smack in the middle of another person's experience. Normally I wouldn't opt into being a mischievous 10-year-old Irish Catholic boy, but Doyle's masterful use of language and syntax make that experience rich and enjoyable.

The cover for this book captures Paddy Clarke perfectly: he's a little wild, a little dirty, but still an innocent at heart. His adventures with this friends devolve into a real worry about an adult problem, his parents' disintegrating marriage. Although Paddy senses trouble, he neither understands what is happening nor has any power to stop it. As readers, we feel Paddy's confusion and at the same time, we know that, ready or not, Paddy is going to have to start growing up.

Things that would normally bother me (lack of punctuation marks, lack of a solid chronology, shifting subject matter, not much of a plot) simply didn't make it onto the radar this time. Doyle's writing provides what feels like an authentic experience and I simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

For more about this book, check out my review at Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - In A Free State

I have trouble thinking of this book as a novel, as the sections share themes but no characters. It's far easier to think of it as four short stories and a novella, and if it were up to me, the novella could go. However, as it's the title piece, that's probably not going to happen.

"In a Free State" is by far the least accessible section of this book. The necessity of a car trip by two whites through a dangerous section of Africa, where civil war is in the offing, leads to a lengthy, claustrophobic, tension-filled journey where I found myself wishing for some violent incident to relieve the tension and perhaps rescue me from the company of two thoroughly unlikeable people. The most interesting part of the journey was a stop at a hotel of faded colonial splendor, where the presiding colonel reminded me of Conrad's Colonel Kurtz. Suffice it to say when you're looking forward to meeting Colonel Kurtz's twin, your journey is not going well.

This lengthy section was the low spot of a book which otherwise contains interesting characters and spot-on depictions of various immigrant and post-colonial experiences, told by various narrators. As a whole, the effect is inconsistent, but the narration itself is quite good in places and clearly illuminates the costs of freedom in terms of alienation, homesickness, isolation from rural life, and social insecurity. Whether the narrator is an Indian in Washington, D.C., a West Indian in London, or a traveler visiting Egypt, exercising one's freedom in a foreign land is fraught with perils.

For more about this book, please see my review at Hotchpot Cafe.

J.G.'s Review - Staying On

It's interesting that no one here seems very keen to read this particular winner, and I must say the following lukewarm reaction isn't likely to inspire anyone to grab a bookmark and dash to their shelves.

That said, this novel isn't particularly bad, either. I think part of the difficulty lies in the author's challenge of reconciling the various post-colonial perspectives of a cranky, aged British military hold-over, his long-suffering, intermittently perceptive wife, their native household help, and their native landlords and neighbors. It's a tall order, resulting in a mixed tone that isn't always successful.

The British couple have "stayed on" for 25 years after India's independence and have become the last of their colonial kind, awash in a world that has changed around them while they themselves have hardly changed at all, except to grow older. Colonel "Tusker" Smalley is cranky and ridiculous, his wife Lucy is alternately pitiful and insightful, the native staff is tolerant and knowing, and the native husband-and-wife landlords provide broadly drawn comic relief.

Although this sounds like quite the set-up, the novel itself is curiously bland. The writing is adequate, some of the characters are quite well-drawn, there is plenty of humor, and the story takes a surprisingly moving turn at the end. All told, however, this is not one of the more memorable winners. I suppose every prize is bound to have a slow year now and again.

For more on this novel, check out my other review at Hotchpot Cafe.