There was a moment, a few weeks back, when I was listening to four audio books (not simultaneously, obvs): Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel, Autumn by Ali Smith, Anything Is Possible by Elizabeth Strout and They Came To Baghdad by Agatha Christie. And I thought to myself, wow, what a line-up. Does it get any better than this?
Alas, Autumn has fallen by the wayside. I love Ali Smith so I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the novel. What I suspect is that her style doesn’t translate well to audio – so few styles do. I love her whimsicality on the page, but it doesn’t come across so well when you’re listening. I must get hold of the book. And the Agatha Christie was a delight, but you probably don’t need me to tell you anything about it. You will either love Agatha or not, as the case may be, but if you love her, it’s a really fun and clever outing on her part.
Which leaves me with two novels to talk about here, one of which I expect lots and lots of people have read, the other of which I expect lots and lots of people are intending to read. And what fine novels they both were.
Bring Up The Bodies will scarcely require a summary. The second of Hilary Mantel’s Tudor novels, we’re following Thomas Cromwell through the wreckage of Henry’s love life. Cromwell is mostly definitely Henry’s right-hand man, but this is rather like being the enforcer for the Godfather. Cromwell accepts this, in fact, he almost welcomes it. But you do sense that this is at least in part because he knows that a fall from grace at this stage will mean death; so doing Henry’s bidding, however crazy or daft it might be, is a no-brainer nevertheless. And it’s hardly as if Cromwell needed the mental focus that would ensure.
When the novel begins, Henry is falling in love with Jane Seymour. She’s described as quiet, whey-faced, retiring, prudish, submissive. All the things, in other words, that Anne Boleyn is not – and this is not a coincidence. But Anne is in the early stages of pregnancy and so her position on the throne is relatively safe. Jane Seymour’s brothers and her father are in no doubt about the upswing in their fortunes that Henry’s infatuation might bring them. Jane is primped ready to meet the king’s needs while Anne is with child. But this never happens. Anne loses the child and, already out of love with her, torn by the desire for a male heir and by the desire for Jane, Henry starts to whine. He decides that this abrupt u-turn in his feelings can only be accounted for if Anne actually bewitched him into loving her in the first place.
Honestly, men! It’s bad enough they come up with this nonsense, but to see a long, inevitable chain of events unspooling from this ridiculous notion that will lead to Anne’s death is quite another matter. If ever a reader were in any doubt as to why power should be controlled by law and divided by as many people as possible, this is the book to clarify the reasons.
Ironically enough, Anne’s execution is facilitated by the death of the first queen, Katherine. While Katherine was alive, Henry had a reason to stick to his guns over Anne, out of stubborn contrariness if nothing else. But when she dies, then Henry starts to feel how lovely it would be if he and the Pope were on better terms again. Anne was an interloper, she put Henry in disfavour with the Catholic church, she has caused him problems without producing the required male child. Oh poor Anne; as spiky, egotistic and loveless a character as she is in Mantel’s version (and Mantel is brilliant in her portrayal), the sheer mendacity and corruption of the case that is brought against her is enough for outrage on her behalf.
Oh and lots of other things happen too: Cromwell is gearing up for his assault on the monasteries, an indication, I felt, of the general overreaching that is creeping into his management of the king’s affairs. Henry is often described as a big baby, and Cromwell, in that case, becomes his over-indulgent mother, giving him everything he really ought not to have. But in doing so, in the ever swifter dynamic of tending to the king’s needs with no hesitation and the experience of power it brings, he is starting to lose sight of the integrity he might once have possessed. If this book had been a movie, a sequel to Wolf Hall and a precursor of the final conclusion to Cromwell’s life, it would probably have been a mess of storylines without satisfying resolution. The kind of in-fill number that you are cynically made to watch if you want to follow the entire story. But in Mantel’s hands it’s all kinds of wonderful. Sharp, insightful, dramatic, gripping and exceptionally written. I expect you’ve heard other people say that, too.
Anything Is Possible by Elizabeth Strout is also a sequel of sorts to her huge hit, My Name Is Lucy Barton. In it, Strout returns to Lucy Barton’s home town of Amgash, Illinois, and tells the stories of a number of characters who received only brief mentions in the first novel. Do you remember all the local histories Lucy’s mother tells her about, all those failed or difficult marriages that she recounts while Lucy is in her hospital bed? Well, along with Lucy’s siblings, those lives now take centre stage.
It doesn’t really matter if you haven’t read the first novel, because the real beauty of this novel – comprised in a series of interconnecting stories – is how the dots are all joined up between the people who feature within it. There was a moment in every story, a gorgeous AHA! moment, when I realised who it was we were reading about, which of the characters who had made a short appearance or been referred to in an earlier story. As in Lucy Barton, it’s a way in which the structure of gossip is used so cleverly and given such unexpected depth. It’s a gossipy small town situation that we always find ourselves in, and if you feel inclined to find that insignificant in any way, there’s plenty of times when you’ll say: Oh, so that’s what happened to so-and-so! And you’ll realise that gossip is storytelling at its most compelling.
What Elizabeth Strout also does with supreme narrative efficiency is draw us into lives of quiet anguish and the unexpected compensations they contain. Strout’s characters suffer: they have trauma in their past, and poverty, and deep, abiding sadness. But these sorrows are balanced by the genuine rewards that sometimes enter their lives – and Strout knows exactly what a real, honest reward looks like. Patty Nicely, a counsellor at the local high school, is bruised by an encounter with an ugly-mouthed teenager, who lets it be known that Patty’s worst secrets are common knowledge. But Patty finds her equilibrium when she summons the strength to understand the young woman and actively help her. How does she find it? Well, in between these two moments, she reads the latest book by Lucy Barton, a warts-and-all memoir of her childhood, and it delivers the grace of insight. ‘The book had understood her’, Strout writes in one of her devastatingly simple sentences. And I wonder how many people feel understood now in their ordinary sadness by Strout’s luminous writing.
There are so many wonderful stories in this narrative that it’s tempting to go on too long about them. My favourite was probably the one about the artist who comes to town for a week’s conference and is lodged with a couple who seem very respectable on the surface. Until the guest goes to bed and the hosts go upstairs to watch her do this on the webcam they have planted in her room. And I did love the story where Lucy briefly returns (as part of her book tour) to Amgash and a reunion with the brother and sister she hasn’t seen in seventeen years. It goes as well and as dreadfully as you might expect.
It’s funny when I think back on Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer-prize-winning Olive Kitteridge and remember that I really didn’t like it. It was one of the very few books back at that time in my life that I didn’t finish. I’m not sure which one of us has changed. But I feel that Strout’s writing has more emotional balance to it now, and that it makes all the difference. Boy, does she know how to do anguish! And she can take you to places that are almost too painful to tolerate – such ordinary humiliations, such unspeakable losses. In Anything Is Possible, though, the title holds a clue. People can be so reliably surprising; life can be so unexpectedly, ironically generous. These are the touches of grace that we live for, and which Strout captures so beautifully on the page.
Thanks for the comments esp. about the Elizabeth Strout…I read and greatly admired “Olive Kitteridge,” but have been disinclined to read anything further because I just didn’t want to dwell in Strout’s incredibly well drawn world of quotidian pettiness, where characters were too well portrayed in their absolute inability to understand themselves or one another. Maybe I’ll give her another try.
I’ve never been able to put my finger on what I didn’t like about Olive Kitteridge, but maybe that’s exactly it. I know I felt frustrated and annoyed by it and that I had a lack of sympathy for the characters (which isn’t normally a problem). I think much about Strout’s writing stays the same. But I found a lot of compassion in both Anything is Possible and My Name is Lucy Barton, a lot more understanding by all concerned, and I did appreciate it.
I’m so looking forward to the new Strout. You might like to know that HBO’s Olive Kitteridge is extraordinarily good if your eyes are up to watching a DVD. I usually avoid adaptations of favourite novels like the plague but Frances McDormand is a superb Olive!
I think you will love it. I didn’t know that they’d made a tv series out of Olive Kitteridge!! I will definitely chase that up as Mr Litlove and I are in sore need of something to watch on telly. Everything we like has ended lately!
Lovely reviews. Thank you. But. i can’t agree about Olive Kitteridge – I think it has allthe great qualities you mention. that and The Burgess Boys are my favourites but I think everything by her is wonderfull
I know I’m in the minority when it comes to Olive Kitteridge! I wouldn’t like to argue with a Pulitzer committee, after all! But I’m definitely a convert to her writing now and think she’s an outstanding writer.
“If ever a reader were in any doubt as to why power should be controlled by law and divided by as many people as possible, this is the book to clarify the reasons.” – I love this, and it’s so true. Henry wasn’t a bad guy, but he had way too much power in his hands.
Absolutely! It’s so dangerous to indulge a person’s whims and fancies. I keep wishing someone would stand up to Henry and put him straight about a few things – and I like to imagine that he might actually take some advice on board. Before ordering the execution notices, that is! 🙂
I love this: ‘It was one of the very few books [Olive Kitteridge] back at that time in my life that I didn’t finish. I’m not sure which one of us has changed. But I feel that Strout’s writing has more emotional balance to it now, and that it makes all the difference.’
What I love is: ‘I’m not sure which one of us has changed.’ It’s gently witty and self-knowingly humble at the same time. Would that more reviewers of novels looked to themselves as well as to the work they’re writing about.
Aw thank you, Angela. I always think it’s me! There are so many variables that go into the reading experience and I’m as ready as the next person to take irrational likes and dislikes. And really, Strout is writing so magnificently of late, I end up wondering what could possibly have bothered me! 🙂
I can’t wait for Mantel to get the next installment of the Cromwell saga into print but it seems she is having difficulty in letting him go. Hope she doesn’t keep us waiting too long. Did you see the magnificent BBC adaptation called Wolf Hall – they shot it in candlelit so you find Cromwell often in half shadow, perfectly encapaulating the idea of a man who hides his true nature.
I gather Hilary Mantel’s delay in producing 3rd book is because she was so involved with stage and screen adaptations.
The stage adaptation of Bring Up the Bodies was even better, I thought, than the one of Wolf Hall, which was fabulous. We saw both of them a couple of years ago in London–Wolf Hall at the matinee and Bring Up the Bodies in the evening.
I’ve heard more than one group of Americans talking about similarities between stories of our 45th president acting like a big baby and stories from English history about Henry 8.
What a coincidence! I finished Olive Kitteridge just the day before yesterday. Now I have to check in your archives why is it you didn’t like it. I found it depressing but beautiful. Now I want to read Bring up the bodies some day but the page count scares me.
I surprised myself by absolutely loving Wolf Hall a couple of years ago, but I haven’t read Bring Up the Bodies, still. I think I’m waiting for Hilary Mantel to release the third book so I can read both books at once. I hate reading unfinished serieses! Anything can happen! And I also admit that I am quite sad about the prospect of Anne Boleyn dying. She’s not as terrible in Mantel’s telling as I was fearing based on what people had said — I think she’s mostly on a moral par with all the others — and I just hate how she dies.