Coming From Behind was recommended to me by someone who, though I didn't know this until later, hadn't read the book. She had read a later book by the same author and found it funny. Maybe I'm not as subject to humour as some people (ie maybe I don't enjoy a joke as much as the next guy) but I found this book really irritating. It's about a professor at a polytechnic (those second-class universities they used to have in England until they abolished them but everyone still treats them as second class because the English don't let status markers be erased quite that easily). His life is terrible and depressing and he himself is terrible and depressing in his values and aspirations and his general state of being a schlub. So is everyone else in the book. It's that approach to comedy where it's funny because everything is blown up into hyperbole. And bad things happen but I don't care because a) it's inevitable that bad things happen in this kind of book, so I'm braced for it (I have a low tolerance, under regular circumstances, for bad news, even in fiction) and b) I dislike everyone involved.
It's is also extremely, but exceedingly, Jewy. He's obsessed with everything being about being Jewish. Maybe it's because he's British, where there's less of a tradition of writers writing about Jewiness. I don't love that kind of thing, being kind of an unjewy Jew myself, and in this case it became particularly irritating because it is subjected to the same hyperbolizing treatment as everything else, so that, for instance, the reason dude doesn't know what a flower is called is because he's Jewish.
Occasionally I found it funny, but mostly I just wanted to get to the end.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Edward St. Aubyn, Mother's Milk (2006)
Since I'm running a terrible backlog in this chronicle of my reading, I've had a fair bit of time to reflect on Mother's Milk before sitting down to write about it. And I think I like it better now than I did when I read it. Some books are like that for me, they swirl around and mature in the mind. I don't know if that happens a lot to other people. Certainly in music it's a common idea that you have to listen to something three or four times before you know if you really like it.
Mother's Milk is narrated by three different characters with two chapters of first-person apiece: first the eldest son of a family, who is four years old (I believe; one of downsides of writing with such a delay is that the book is back at the bibliotheque). He's a strange four year old in that there's absolutely no indication that he's four, except that the book tells you so. He's preternaturally precocious. In other kid's-voice books, the kid is often unusually smart or gifted but still a kid. If it was St. Aubyn's goal to achieve that kind of balance, he failed. The other two narrators are the mother and father of the nuclear family. They're very intellectually and wryly clever, with a feeling of superiority that is not exactly my favourite, but at least it fits since they're adults.
I don't usually like to say that a book has a theme, because it feels reductionist and assumptionist, but this book definitely has a theme. It is a consideration of the parents' relationships with their own parents, but really only the mothers. They each had what they consider to be highly dysfunctional childhoods, in the sense that both their mothers were too preoccupied with other matters to properly love and care for their children, and, when they became parents themselves, these two seem to have done it with a conscious mission to improve parenting and break the cycle of dysfunction, and both seem to have worried whether or not they would accomplish it. During the period the book is set in, the mother of the pair of little boys has gone over to the light side. She's a wholly, self-sacrificingly attentive mother. She does everything she can to make life perfect, especially for her younger son. The father, on the other hand, is falling apart. He's fighting a lot with his mother and mourning the loss of the mothering attentions of his wife, who now has no time for him because of the aforementioned wholeness of her attention to her baby. And his bitterness is infecting his precocious and perceptive elder son. To his credit, he realizes that he's doing this, and feels bad about it. I suppose both are partially succeeding in their attempts to break the they-fuck-you-up cycle, and partly, inevitably, fucking up in their turn.
It's a neatly organized book. It's an intelligent book. But it doesn't feel like a lovable book. Maybe for the very reason that it states its theme and makes its arguments too clearly. It made me reflect on the nature of parenthood and the history of families, and it had interesting insights into those questions, but they were essayistic insights rather than flowing fiction.
Mother's Milk is narrated by three different characters with two chapters of first-person apiece: first the eldest son of a family, who is four years old (I believe; one of downsides of writing with such a delay is that the book is back at the bibliotheque). He's a strange four year old in that there's absolutely no indication that he's four, except that the book tells you so. He's preternaturally precocious. In other kid's-voice books, the kid is often unusually smart or gifted but still a kid. If it was St. Aubyn's goal to achieve that kind of balance, he failed. The other two narrators are the mother and father of the nuclear family. They're very intellectually and wryly clever, with a feeling of superiority that is not exactly my favourite, but at least it fits since they're adults.
I don't usually like to say that a book has a theme, because it feels reductionist and assumptionist, but this book definitely has a theme. It is a consideration of the parents' relationships with their own parents, but really only the mothers. They each had what they consider to be highly dysfunctional childhoods, in the sense that both their mothers were too preoccupied with other matters to properly love and care for their children, and, when they became parents themselves, these two seem to have done it with a conscious mission to improve parenting and break the cycle of dysfunction, and both seem to have worried whether or not they would accomplish it. During the period the book is set in, the mother of the pair of little boys has gone over to the light side. She's a wholly, self-sacrificingly attentive mother. She does everything she can to make life perfect, especially for her younger son. The father, on the other hand, is falling apart. He's fighting a lot with his mother and mourning the loss of the mothering attentions of his wife, who now has no time for him because of the aforementioned wholeness of her attention to her baby. And his bitterness is infecting his precocious and perceptive elder son. To his credit, he realizes that he's doing this, and feels bad about it. I suppose both are partially succeeding in their attempts to break the they-fuck-you-up cycle, and partly, inevitably, fucking up in their turn.
It's a neatly organized book. It's an intelligent book. But it doesn't feel like a lovable book. Maybe for the very reason that it states its theme and makes its arguments too clearly. It made me reflect on the nature of parenthood and the history of families, and it had interesting insights into those questions, but they were essayistic insights rather than flowing fiction.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Susan Minot, Evening (1998)
This is a beautiful book. I wasn't sure at first, I guess because it takes a while to figure out what story is being told. The book is in three tones: one is the story of the young woman Ann Grant attending her friend's wedding and falling in love with another guest, another is of Ann Lord, who is Ann Grant after three marriages and four children, who is in and out of lucidity on her deathbed, the third, and shortest, is a dialogue between two voices that are never explicitly named. The three streams cut across one another and give a lovely succinct sense of this woman's life (and possibly a sense of her afterlife, depending on your reading of the incorporeal dialogue stream).
Ann Lord She has her four children around her in her final days, but her thoughts are much less on them than on all the men in her life. I particularly liked the way the three husbands get condensed sometimes -- those experiences of falling in love that seem so unique in the moment become fungible at a remove, when evaluating what mattered over a whole life.
Ann Lord She has her four children around her in her final days, but her thoughts are much less on them than on all the men in her life. I particularly liked the way the three husbands get condensed sometimes -- those experiences of falling in love that seem so unique in the moment become fungible at a remove, when evaluating what mattered over a whole life.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Frank Herbert, Dune (1965)
Even though I used to be a sci fi head as a teenager, I'd never read this book, and it was lying around my place the other week when I was in bed all day with a cold, so I picked it up. It's pretty engrossing, in a Harry Potter/murder mystery kind of way. But it also struck me as either extremely un-self aware or as very subtly super-colonialist in its views. Were it written in the 18th century the latter would make more sense to me as a political view. As it is, I think it's the former.
The book takes place on a planet called Arrakis that has been colonized by a state that spans many other planets and has lots of military and economic might. Arrakis is very rich in a natural resource they call spice, which is an addictive drug that everyone really loves and that only exists on this one planet. But the planet has a big problem which is that it's all desert, and the large indigenous population has so little access to water they can barely survive (you might think they'd be trading spice for water but in fact the colonists don't trade, they just go in and take the spice themselves). The way in which it's un-self aware is this: on the one hand, Herbert clearly loves this people he has made up. They're so much cleverer and more beautiful than the technologically-dependent money-driven colonists. You get all of that noble savage stuff, or maybe it's the modern fetishization of the non-white world, it really comes to the same thing. But even though they're so strong and so much more knowledgeable than the thieving colonists, they only win the battle because of two successive leaders, both of whom are sons of colonist fathers -- the first one has a native Arrakian mother, and he does a lot for Arrakis, but the real saviour is the guy who is a full-blooded colonial prince who had to escape to the deserts of Arrakis because of a grave injustice done to his family.
Maybe it's terribly naive of me to be surprised by this kind of white man as saviour narrative in a storyline where someone seems at the same time respect and honour the other (imaginary) culture. But really, by 1965 I thought people were a little past this kind of thing. Maybe I was also surprised because of how much I'd heard about this classic, and that in telling me to read it no-one ever mentioned the racist sub-text, but only told me that it was a great read. It is that, with the usual sci-fi caveat that you have to read for the ideas and ignore the nuts and bolts of the writing style.
The book takes place on a planet called Arrakis that has been colonized by a state that spans many other planets and has lots of military and economic might. Arrakis is very rich in a natural resource they call spice, which is an addictive drug that everyone really loves and that only exists on this one planet. But the planet has a big problem which is that it's all desert, and the large indigenous population has so little access to water they can barely survive (you might think they'd be trading spice for water but in fact the colonists don't trade, they just go in and take the spice themselves). The way in which it's un-self aware is this: on the one hand, Herbert clearly loves this people he has made up. They're so much cleverer and more beautiful than the technologically-dependent money-driven colonists. You get all of that noble savage stuff, or maybe it's the modern fetishization of the non-white world, it really comes to the same thing. But even though they're so strong and so much more knowledgeable than the thieving colonists, they only win the battle because of two successive leaders, both of whom are sons of colonist fathers -- the first one has a native Arrakian mother, and he does a lot for Arrakis, but the real saviour is the guy who is a full-blooded colonial prince who had to escape to the deserts of Arrakis because of a grave injustice done to his family.
Maybe it's terribly naive of me to be surprised by this kind of white man as saviour narrative in a storyline where someone seems at the same time respect and honour the other (imaginary) culture. But really, by 1965 I thought people were a little past this kind of thing. Maybe I was also surprised because of how much I'd heard about this classic, and that in telling me to read it no-one ever mentioned the racist sub-text, but only told me that it was a great read. It is that, with the usual sci-fi caveat that you have to read for the ideas and ignore the nuts and bolts of the writing style.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Blindness by José Saramago (1995; trans. Giovanni Pontiero 1997)
Two parts fable, one part sci-fi action thriller. It opens with a man suddenly going blind while stopped at a red light at a busy intersection. When the light turns green, people start to yell. The blindness is viral (or at any rate contagious) and soon the entire country is in a panic.
The fable nature of the piece comes not just from the symbolic, magic-realism-with-a-clear-message plot. It's accentuated in all sorts of little ways: for instance, names are conspicuously absent: the city is the city, the country is the country, the man who went blind in his car is referred to throughout as 'the first man'. His companions are the old man, the doctor, the doctor's wife, the pretty young woman, the young boy, the first man's wife. You may also note a gender discrepancy that I preferred while reading to ascribe to a kind of old-fashionedness but which could also be felt as just an old man's sexism. But anyhow, the effect is of essentializing everyone and everything: the soldier, the rapist, the man who reads braille. It works well, as he's done it. He doesn't mean to be writing about idiosyncrasies.
Another feature of the book is a frequently encountered editorial voice that is neither character's nor author's. This voice's statements are always general and blunt. For instance,
Anyhow, I like fables and I'm a big fan of the sci-fi action thriller. There's something very compelling about the book -- I'm easily grossed out but I had to keep reading long after my bedtime because I was so wrapped up in it. And sometimes because I just needed to have the characters be out of the horrible spot they were in before I could safely close my eyes to sleep.
The fable nature of the piece comes not just from the symbolic, magic-realism-with-a-clear-message plot. It's accentuated in all sorts of little ways: for instance, names are conspicuously absent: the city is the city, the country is the country, the man who went blind in his car is referred to throughout as 'the first man'. His companions are the old man, the doctor, the doctor's wife, the pretty young woman, the young boy, the first man's wife. You may also note a gender discrepancy that I preferred while reading to ascribe to a kind of old-fashionedness but which could also be felt as just an old man's sexism. But anyhow, the effect is of essentializing everyone and everything: the soldier, the rapist, the man who reads braille. It works well, as he's done it. He doesn't mean to be writing about idiosyncrasies.
Another feature of the book is a frequently encountered editorial voice that is neither character's nor author's. This voice's statements are always general and blunt. For instance,
they could just as easily have had their provisions cut off for ever, as is only just when someone dares to bite the hand that feeds them.The hand-biters are the members of one ward of the mental hospital turned internment camp who send eight representatives to peacefully complain about how little food the blind mafia has been giving them. Or, when a group encounters a man and woman who are joking lewdly, the abstract voice wonders whether these two could be married and answers surely not, because "no married couple would say these things in public." It is possible that these are intended to be character's thoughts, but if so Saramago is switching in and out of them with particularly little signal. But he definitely does that too, like in the line: "Shortly there would be darkness all around and no one will have to be embarrassed." I'm assuming the abrupt tense change isn't a horrible translation error and so I assume that we've switched from the third person to the first, with our only marker being that change from the past conditional to the future simple. But I don't think the first two sentences are examples of that, because it's hard to know in either context whom to attribute the thought to. Throughout, there's this extra narrator who is a cynical and extremely convention-bound omniscient observer.
Anyhow, I like fables and I'm a big fan of the sci-fi action thriller. There's something very compelling about the book -- I'm easily grossed out but I had to keep reading long after my bedtime because I was so wrapped up in it. And sometimes because I just needed to have the characters be out of the horrible spot they were in before I could safely close my eyes to sleep.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Marcel Proust, Le Côté de Guermantes (1920)
Yesterday I happened to read about someone's view that Proust wasn't really a novelist, but an essayist in disguise. That seems kinda right. Swann is about obsession, Jeunes filles is about living in the world - loves, friendships, restaurants and so on. Guermantes is about aristocracy and snobbery.
The thing I find really funny is while I (and lots of others who are more serious learned than me) love reading this book, it really doesn't make any sense that it should be so good. If one tries to describe this volume, it sounds completely odious (as opposed to all three of the books in Swann, which are just amazing in the things they tell you about what it is to be human). I'm reading a book about a man who is introduced into aristocratic circles. The sentences usually contain about twenty clauses that I have to keep in mind in order to loop them all back up before I can go on to the next, equally convoluted, idea. Often I fail and have to start the sentence over again two or three times before I can move ahead (the difficulty in this case being exacerbated by reading in a second language, but I think it would be almost the same - reading Henry James was a bit like that in English). A huge amount of the book is taken up with a discussion of how people I've never heard of are related to other people I've never heard of and how these connections make each connectee ever more illustrious. Some of these people were real, some fictional, and some might have been real except maybe Proust got his details mixed up (and of course it's part of his genius that he mixes fact and fiction and really doesn't care -- he's above worrying about attributing a real story about Manet to a made-up character). Aside from that there are major sections devoted to who visits who, including such sub-topics as people who visit certain others only because they are close family, where otherwise that person would not be fashionable enough for them to visit, people who are visited by certain people but don't visit them back, charity drop-in visits, the excuses a person may come up with for why they cannot possibly invite some particular would-be visitor because that person is so unpleasant, or of such low rank, that it would be disastrous to have them at your table or in your salon. Then Proust provides special insight into the mean and silly things that fashionable people say about unfashionable people. I suppose they were the celebrities of the time, and it's no weirder than people who obsess over the marriages of boring rock stars now. But I don't read People, let alone furrowing my brow and devoting this kind of time and energy to it.
The main attraction is simply the way he puts words next to each other. Two things that turn these ridiculous tales into good story-telling: his dissection of the vanities and the fears of his characters is insightful and therefore entertaining, and the trick of the dual narrator, who is scornful as he tells you the story, but who is honest enough to depict his past self as totally impressed and awed. A brilliant essayist can entertain with any topic. The moments of awe were most tightly packed (for me) in Swann but there are more still here than in almost anything else I've ever read.
The thing I find really funny is while I (and lots of others who are more serious learned than me) love reading this book, it really doesn't make any sense that it should be so good. If one tries to describe this volume, it sounds completely odious (as opposed to all three of the books in Swann, which are just amazing in the things they tell you about what it is to be human). I'm reading a book about a man who is introduced into aristocratic circles. The sentences usually contain about twenty clauses that I have to keep in mind in order to loop them all back up before I can go on to the next, equally convoluted, idea. Often I fail and have to start the sentence over again two or three times before I can move ahead (the difficulty in this case being exacerbated by reading in a second language, but I think it would be almost the same - reading Henry James was a bit like that in English). A huge amount of the book is taken up with a discussion of how people I've never heard of are related to other people I've never heard of and how these connections make each connectee ever more illustrious. Some of these people were real, some fictional, and some might have been real except maybe Proust got his details mixed up (and of course it's part of his genius that he mixes fact and fiction and really doesn't care -- he's above worrying about attributing a real story about Manet to a made-up character). Aside from that there are major sections devoted to who visits who, including such sub-topics as people who visit certain others only because they are close family, where otherwise that person would not be fashionable enough for them to visit, people who are visited by certain people but don't visit them back, charity drop-in visits, the excuses a person may come up with for why they cannot possibly invite some particular would-be visitor because that person is so unpleasant, or of such low rank, that it would be disastrous to have them at your table or in your salon. Then Proust provides special insight into the mean and silly things that fashionable people say about unfashionable people. I suppose they were the celebrities of the time, and it's no weirder than people who obsess over the marriages of boring rock stars now. But I don't read People, let alone furrowing my brow and devoting this kind of time and energy to it.
The main attraction is simply the way he puts words next to each other. Two things that turn these ridiculous tales into good story-telling: his dissection of the vanities and the fears of his characters is insightful and therefore entertaining, and the trick of the dual narrator, who is scornful as he tells you the story, but who is honest enough to depict his past self as totally impressed and awed. A brilliant essayist can entertain with any topic. The moments of awe were most tightly packed (for me) in Swann but there are more still here than in almost anything else I've ever read.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (1915)
It took me an unfortunately long time to read this because I moved apartments while I was in the middle of it, lost the book in the move, and then waited a few months before getting a library membership and taking it out. I think I enjoyed it a bit less than I would have if I'd given it my sustained focus. It is in some ways a hard book, because its rhythm is very slow and because so much of it is this minute-by-minute tracking of the mental processes behind everyday activities, which is amazing and it is done well here, but you can miss if you're not paying close attention. It's not an airplane book.
There's a split authorial personality. The core of the book is a portrait of Woolf's mother and father. Their children are running around all over the novel and in some way necessarily Woolf occupies the role of child of her parents, or at least member of her own family. But there is another important character who is not a member of the family but a visitor to their summer house, Lily Briscoe, a painter. Amost Lily's whole being in the book centres around a landscape that she is painting and trying the whole time to get right - not in terms of faithful representation, but rhythmically. It's like Woolf is telling the story of her work in trying to find the right moments of light and shadow to best paint this group portrait. She is both in and out, which is also necessarily true of a writer. And this book gives a particularly good demonstration of that without any self-reference or post-modern piercing of frameworks. Then towards the end the children gain some subjectivity and we see the parents through their eyes as well as through the parents own thoughts about themselves and each other.
I'm thinking about rhythm because I read recently that Woolf once wrote in a diary that writing is all about getting the rhythm. Once you've understood your rhythm and can get into it, the words you use don't matter much. I love that. And this book is so full of awesome rhythms. I love Cam's sequence of emotions on the sailboat going toward the lighthouse. Earlier, she and her brother made a compact (presumably unspoken but real to each of them) to be sullen and unhappy throughout the trip in protest of their father's overbearing, selfish manner. But then Cam's on the boat and the water is spraying and the air is blowing in her hair and she's trying to hold onto being unhappy but she can't help feeling the exhilaration of being on the sailboat. She goes back to the unhappiness for a moment, calling to mind her good reasons for being unhappy and the need for loyalty to her brother, then she feels the pull of the moment, and back and forth until the prior emotion breaks and she is in the good happy feeling, which incidentally also allows her to think lovingly of her father again. I used to feel like that all the time, wanting to hold onto some pact I'd made with myself to resist the temptations of false happiness. The push and pull and the actual slowness and uncertainty of shifts in emotion are perfectly true, as are the depictions at other points in the book of the quickness and randomness of shifts from enjoyment to sudden annoyance at some small thing someone does, and back again. It's like Woolf is telling us that the reality of human beings is really the opposite of the humours theory, that a character is made up of constant minute backs and forths, the sum total of which will create a person who overall seems one way or another, happy or bitter or serious. It makes me think of physical balance, in which stillness is only achieved through constant tiny adjustments of little muscles in different parts of the body that are all active and actually moving the body from place to place in order to attain an overall appearance of stillness.
There's a split authorial personality. The core of the book is a portrait of Woolf's mother and father. Their children are running around all over the novel and in some way necessarily Woolf occupies the role of child of her parents, or at least member of her own family. But there is another important character who is not a member of the family but a visitor to their summer house, Lily Briscoe, a painter. Amost Lily's whole being in the book centres around a landscape that she is painting and trying the whole time to get right - not in terms of faithful representation, but rhythmically. It's like Woolf is telling the story of her work in trying to find the right moments of light and shadow to best paint this group portrait. She is both in and out, which is also necessarily true of a writer. And this book gives a particularly good demonstration of that without any self-reference or post-modern piercing of frameworks. Then towards the end the children gain some subjectivity and we see the parents through their eyes as well as through the parents own thoughts about themselves and each other.
I'm thinking about rhythm because I read recently that Woolf once wrote in a diary that writing is all about getting the rhythm. Once you've understood your rhythm and can get into it, the words you use don't matter much. I love that. And this book is so full of awesome rhythms. I love Cam's sequence of emotions on the sailboat going toward the lighthouse. Earlier, she and her brother made a compact (presumably unspoken but real to each of them) to be sullen and unhappy throughout the trip in protest of their father's overbearing, selfish manner. But then Cam's on the boat and the water is spraying and the air is blowing in her hair and she's trying to hold onto being unhappy but she can't help feeling the exhilaration of being on the sailboat. She goes back to the unhappiness for a moment, calling to mind her good reasons for being unhappy and the need for loyalty to her brother, then she feels the pull of the moment, and back and forth until the prior emotion breaks and she is in the good happy feeling, which incidentally also allows her to think lovingly of her father again. I used to feel like that all the time, wanting to hold onto some pact I'd made with myself to resist the temptations of false happiness. The push and pull and the actual slowness and uncertainty of shifts in emotion are perfectly true, as are the depictions at other points in the book of the quickness and randomness of shifts from enjoyment to sudden annoyance at some small thing someone does, and back again. It's like Woolf is telling us that the reality of human beings is really the opposite of the humours theory, that a character is made up of constant minute backs and forths, the sum total of which will create a person who overall seems one way or another, happy or bitter or serious. It makes me think of physical balance, in which stillness is only achieved through constant tiny adjustments of little muscles in different parts of the body that are all active and actually moving the body from place to place in order to attain an overall appearance of stillness.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel (2009)
Wolf Hall might be the best political thriller ever written, but then I'm not an expert in the genre. Anyhow it totally gripped me from beginning to end. My only disappointment was that there wasn't more -- I felt like I was cut off abruptly from the ongoing machinations. It has the kind of ending where if it was a movie you'd know they were setting you up for the sequel rather than giving you a stand-alone first film. I guess I'll have to buy a real history book to see how it plays out.
It's a fictionography of Thomas Cromwell, advisor to Henry VIII. He was an extraordinary character if this book is to be believed: became fluent in every language he was exposed to, could make money without even really thinking about it, didn't need to sleep, always knew the right thing to say, was stronger and physically tougher than anyone else even as he grew older, and was really, really knowledgeable about textiles. Also loyal, kind, reasonable, loving and pretty gender-egalitarian for the time period. I was occasionally annoyed, as I got further into the book, that there was almost no criticism of Cromwell. It made him seem un-round, but it's also lots of fun to read a book with such an easily heroic hero. There's more than enough criticism of Henry and the Boleyns and Mary to make up for Cromwell's virtues.
The book isn't moving or worldview-altering, but it is impressive. Mantel is amazing at inventing interior lives and detailed relationships that flesh out the historical account. It's so well done that it's hard to believe they're not fictional. I kept thinking that as I read, and then thinking it must not make a difference. But it must take much greater force of character to add all that to the insides of a real person, rather than making someone up over whom you would have total dominion.
It's a fictionography of Thomas Cromwell, advisor to Henry VIII. He was an extraordinary character if this book is to be believed: became fluent in every language he was exposed to, could make money without even really thinking about it, didn't need to sleep, always knew the right thing to say, was stronger and physically tougher than anyone else even as he grew older, and was really, really knowledgeable about textiles. Also loyal, kind, reasonable, loving and pretty gender-egalitarian for the time period. I was occasionally annoyed, as I got further into the book, that there was almost no criticism of Cromwell. It made him seem un-round, but it's also lots of fun to read a book with such an easily heroic hero. There's more than enough criticism of Henry and the Boleyns and Mary to make up for Cromwell's virtues.
The book isn't moving or worldview-altering, but it is impressive. Mantel is amazing at inventing interior lives and detailed relationships that flesh out the historical account. It's so well done that it's hard to believe they're not fictional. I kept thinking that as I read, and then thinking it must not make a difference. But it must take much greater force of character to add all that to the insides of a real person, rather than making someone up over whom you would have total dominion.
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