Category Archives: Literature

Wordsworth’s relevance to solitude and the lockdown

Covid-19 is forcing many people into states of isolation which they find difficult to bear. People find themselves cut off from the outside world, locked into a frightening situation that is beyond their control. Our most populous cities have become a breeding ground for loneliness. Others, though, seem to be rising to the challenge, drawing on inner resources of fortitude and even optimism that they might not otherwise have known they possessed.

Solitude can create deep mental anguish through the agonies of loneliness; or, on the contrary, it can provide a refreshing respite from the overbearing burden of modern life. “The World Is Too Much With Us”, wrote William Wordsworth in a sonnet (XXXIII, pub. 1807) with that title. As he saw it, more than two hundred years ago, the Industrial Revolution was constructing a barrier between men and the natural world. “Getting and spending”, we are “out of tune” with Nature and have “given our hearts away”, he complained. Although this is probably not a passion which would resonate with keen shoppers currently enduring home-bound lockdown, it might well strike a chord with some – those, especially, who have taken opportunities to escape to the country, or whose dearest wish is to get away from the maddening, infected crowds.

Loneliness, lack of freedom, being alone, solitude – all closely-related expressions, but by no means interchangeable. In Wordsworth’s huge body of poetical works we find numerous descriptions of different characters, real or imaginary, having to deal with solitude in different ways and in different settings. Conversely, one is also struck by Wordsworth’s joy in communing with Nature, on his own, away from other people. Whether he himself would have thrived in a lockdown seems very unlikely, not only because he would have been kept from meeting family members and friends: I think he would have most sorely missed the freedom to roam the fields and hills. His personal experiences of solitude were more revelatory than frustrating. Living in the inspirational Lake District and on the moors, he benefited from the kind of freedom many modern holiday-makers would seek out with great enthusiasm. On the other hand, seeing other much less fortunate individuals scratching a living in rural isolation often provided vicarious experiences which often, in that moment, became the mainspring of his creative urge. Life could be tough, even for those living in idyllic surroundings.

His kindred spirit and writing companion for some years, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, shared many of Wordsworth’s passions. In June 1797, a brief lockdown came Coleridge’s way, following an accident which prevented him from joining some visiting friends during the whole time of their stay. His poem, “This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison”, seems to speak for them both in describing his sense of loss in being confined to his garden:

“Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness!”

On the other hand, he suggests, being locked in has its compensations, in making us vow to appreciate freedom much more once it is returned to us:

” … sometimes
‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share”.

Yes, and I think eventually we will all appreciate freedom of movement much more, if and when this deadly plague is itself locked down.

The imaginative power which solitude held for Wordsworth owed a great deal to his childhood experiences. In Book II of “The Prelude” (the first part of a planned gigantic work called “The Recluse”, which he was never to complete), he describes his habit of getting up early, while at Hawkshead, and walking round to Esthwaite Water before school,

” … when the Vale,
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude …
Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Would overspread my soul that bodily eyes
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw
Appeared like something in myself, a dream,
A prospect in the mind”.

He would walk alone, “under the quiet stars”, or stand beneath a rock as the sky darkened, listening to “notes that are the ghostly language of the earth”. “Thence”, he writes, “did I drink the visionary power”. Some of his most visionary impressions came to him when he was alone on the moors at night, setting ‘springes’ to catch woodcocks, or plundering birds nests, or while he was boating on Ullswater. He came to learn, “to feel, perhaps too much, the self-sufficing power of Solitude”.

He describes his sense of awareness of the power, over the mind, of Nature, in an early passage in “The Prelude”, Book I. He recollects the sights which he had seen during a boating expedition, and describes the effect of such sights on his imagination:

” … after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Or sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams”.

Wordsworth’s abiding interest in Nature, coupled with a consciousness of the significance for him of solitude, led him to combine the themes in much of his poetry. From a young age, it helped develop in him a sensibility attuned to the place of Man in Nature, something that can speak to us even during this period, as we find ourselves “cabined, cribbed, confined” (to borrow from the Scottish play) in ways we find uncomfortably alien. No doubt Wordsworth would have us re-assess our obsessions with “getting and spending” and rather opt for the simple life, seeking fulfilment not on websites, in department stores and trawling through supermarkets, but in the hills and valleys; and companionship not in city streets, bars and restaurants, but in the natural world in all its forms.

“The Old Cumberland Beggar”, written in 1797 (publ. 1800, in the collection “Poems Referring To The Period of Old Age”), describes a meeting with “a solitary Man”, while the poet was walking through a village in that county:

” … In the sun, …
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude”.

The beggar’s solitude, and independence, is described by Wordsworth as though the old man were a living incarnation of the spirit of Nature, as it infuses a similar imaginative power into the poet’s works. The beggar is not to be scorned:

“Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed …”,

merely because his life is a simple one or because he is of a lowly social rank. He is rather to act as a “binding” influence on the people of the village:

“Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts”.

The beggar assumes a rare dignity in Wordsworth’s eyes:

“Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart”,

and the poem ends with a wish that the old man may have around him “the pleasant melody of woodland birds”. It is apparent , even in a fairly early poem such as this, that Wordsworth had formed the opinion that mankind could commune with “Eternity and God” through such experiences – that he could be redeemed through Nature’s influences.

It may not be so surprising that a poet living in a sparsely-populated part of the country should meet with various facets of solitude; but what is worth noting is the fact that Wordsworth’s imagination seems to have been particularly fertile in such a setting. Vivid memories laid down in natural surroundings became a well-spring for future creativity. As Wordsworth famously wrote in his manifesto-like Preface to the “Lyrical Ballads” collection:

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”

Wordsworth wasn’t anti-social. He enjoyed the company of other students while at St John’s College, Cambridge, between 1787 and 1791, for instance:

Friendships, acquaintances were welcome all,
We sauntered, played, or rioted; we talked
Unprofitable talk at morning hours”.

He travelled extensively on the continent and also to London. Whilst in France, including time he spent there during the Revolution, he made many close friendships in locations such as Paris, Blois and Orleans. But his thoughts frequently wandered back to his experiences in rural surroundings. The ethos of urban life, with its hustle and bustle, jarred with the idyllic scenes that were the stable backdrop to his everyday thoughts. For him, life in the city often brought out the worst in people, as he wrote whilst on a visit to London in 1802:

“Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power”.

(from Sonnet XIV, London, 1802, publ. 1807)

The solitude might be real, as in the case of “The Solitary Reaper” (a “Highland Lass” – “Alone she cuts and binds the grain,/ And sings a melancholy strain;/ O listen! for the Vale profound,/ Is overflowing with the sound”); or a product of the imagination, as in “Tintern Abbey”, where the poet is paying a return visit to a lonely place:

“These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms and ‘mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration”.

Tintern Abbey: The Crossing and Chancel, Looking towards the East Window,
J M W Turner, 1794

As someone who grew up in a (comparatively) rural setting, I know that feeling. The sense of alienation one can endure when living alone in a big city is at the same time both heightened and assuaged by memories of being in more tranquil surroundings.

The solitary figure recurs throughout his poetry. Wordsworth makes great use of the contrast between a sight or sound, perhaps made by a lone human figure or a bird or animal, and a still, silent background. Such images are to be found in Book IV of “The Prelude”: a hermit in the wilderness, a solitary watchman in a lighthouse, the sudden appearance of someone along a lonely road, are vivid images which have a direct appeal to the imagination:

“How gracious, how benign is Solitude”, he writes;
“How potent a mere image of her sway;
Most potent when impressed upon the mind
With an appropriate human centre”.

Most of the story-form poems which Wordsworth wrote have as their “human centre” some actual event in his life, and a story told to him as a child by his “step-dame”, Anne Tyson of Hawkshead, inspired both the account of shepherds in Book VIII of “The Prelude” and the very moving pastoral poem “Michael”. Evidently Wordsworth had been very affected by the original tale:

Anne Tyson’s Cottage

” … It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shepherds …”

The deep impression it made on the young Wordsworth is highlighted by a passage in “The Prelude”, in which he refers to the shepherd as a genius:

“I felt his presence in his own domain
As of a lord and master, or a power,
Or genius, under Nature, under God,
Presiding; and severest solitude
Had more commanding looks when he was there”.

The poem “Michael, A Pastoral Poem” is in the true sense of the word pastoral in that its subject is common life, rather than the poet’s own moods and themes. Michael, an old shepherd “of unusual strength”, living in a place of “utter solitude”, works hard every day, supported by his loving wife Isabel, to bring up their son, Luke. Ultimately a tragedy, it is the kind of tale that would have gripped early eighteenth century readers, a poem meant to be recited aloud, I think, with simple vocabulary arranged in flowing iambic pentameters. Towards the end, Luke helps his father make a stone sheepfold. In a way this simple enclosure symbolizes the way Michael, through sheer hard work, makes the most of a life which is terribly constricted, albeit in such beautiful surroundings. But all Michael’s work comes to naught. Luke is given the opportunity to escape from the privations which had trapped his parents and heads for the big city. It doesn’t end well. Actually, Wordsworth is not as concerned with the downfall of the son so much as its effect on his aged father, who remains locked into a life of hardship, albeit hitherto rich in spiritual rewards. At the climax, Wordsworth allows the facts to speak for themselves:

” Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding place beyond the seas”

The pity of onlookers for a lonely, betrayed old man is the element which provides all that is necessary for an understanding of his feelings:

” … ‘Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the Old Man – and ’tis believ’d by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone”.

Feelings of a lack of freedom are nothing new or unusual. Hopefully the necessities of enduring lockdown in a pandemic are temporary. But Wordsworth relates documentary, narrative poems like Michael to work allegorically and timelessly, enabling any reader to compare their own situation with those of others who have lived lives (to use modern parlance) ‘on the edge’.

Another poem based on actual events is “Resolution and Independence“, or, as it is more familiarly known, “The Leech Gatherer”. Wordsworth had noted: “I met this old man a few hundred yards from my cottage; and the account of him is taken down from his own mouth”. Coleridge, by the way, criticizes the poem in “Biographia Literaria”, Chapter XXII, as showing Wordsworth’s “inconstancy of style”, noting his “sudden and unprepared transitions from lines or sentences of peculiar felicity (at all events striking and original) to a style not only unimpassioned but undistinguished”. It was in deference to Coleridge’s judgment that in the later editions Stanza IX was cancelled.

Wordsworth drew upon only the external details of the old man. It’s obvious from the poem that he was forcibly struck by the man’s “fortitude and patient cheer”, but the description of the meeting, contained in his sister Dorothy‘s “Journal”, is wildly different from the situation described in the poem: the story, and the thoughts on poverty, death and insanity which arise from it, are all products of Wordsworth’s imagination. The poem begins with a picture of his own journey across a moor, with vivid descriptions of natural beauty. Wordsworth is quite joyous as the poem opens, but becomes depressed, for no other reason than the fact that he begins to wonder if ” … there may come another day to me,/ Solitude, pain of heart, distress and poverty”.

The contrast between his own melancholy and the cheerfulness of Nature is impressive, but is surpassed by the sudden appearance, by the side of the pool, of the leech-gatherer – he looked

“Like a Sea-beast crawl’d forth, which on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself”.

When Wordsworth speaks to him, “a flash of mild surprise” breaks from “the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes”. The poet is inwardly moved by the leech-gatherer’s story of hardship and patience, and sees the old man with his mind’s eye:

“About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently”.

Coleridge quoted this passage, in the “Biographia Literaria”, as one which justified Wordsworth’s claim, in “Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a picture of Peele Castle” (1805), that poets:

” … add the gleam,
The light that never was on sea or land.
The consecration and the poet’s dream”.

The imaginative description and moral force of this presentation of resolution in solitude must place the poem very highly among Wordsworth’s poems as a whole.

The effects of solitude and a natural environment are also dealt with in “The Excursion”. The poem signals, however, a distinct decline in Wordsworth’s poetical powers, which lapse had been noticeable since 1807, and was to become more pronounced from 1815. “The Excursion” was written as the second part of the proposed three-part, vast philosophical poem, the title of which, “The Recluse”, may again be indicative of Wordsworth’s faith in the powers of the imagination in solitude. “The Excursion” appeared in 1814, mystifying his public, as “The Prelude”, intended as the first part of the longer work, was still to be published. Though it lacks the glamour, the emotive power, and the sense of structure of “The Prelude”, its rural descriptions possess all the attributes of Wordsworth’s best nature poetry. Coleridge found the poem “especialy characteristic of the author. There is scarce a defect or excellence in his writings of which it would not present a specimen. But it would be unjust not to repeat that this defect is only occasional” (“Biographia Literaria”, ch XXII).

There are many references in “The Excursion” to what Wordsworth had called, in “I wandered lonely as a cloud”, “the bliss of solitude”. The description of the situation of ‘The Wanderer’, of Book I, is an example:

” … Thus informed,
He had small need of books; for many a tale
Traditionary round the mountain hung,
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods,
Nourished Imagination in her growth,
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power
By which she is made quick to recognize
The moral properties and scope of things”.

Wordsworth’s interest in children, and childhood, gives us another insight into the significance of solitude for his poetic work. It was his recollection of his own early days which prompted this interest. He had been entranced by natural beauty, as I’ve already noted, in his school days, the scenes having impressed themselves upon his mind in no ordinary way. Retrospectively, they had “the charm of visionary things”. For this reason, Wordsworth was fascinated in later life by the children he knew best: Edward Montagu, his own children, and Hartley Coleridge (right). He noticed that they were given to periods of happy self-absorption in musing or play, when they seemed utterly remote from the active world of ordinary human beings. Writing in 1811 about his three-year-old daughter, Catharine, he says:

” … this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient, solitude to her
Is blithe society”,

and this theme was frequently taken up elsewhere.

As John Jones points out, in “The Egotistical Sublime – a history of Wordsworth’s imagination“, the unifying factor in Wordsworth’s use of the theme of solitude is the fact that all his solitary figures have “a primordial quality by virtue of which … [they] … stand anterior, in time or in logic, to a divorce in human understanding”. That is to say, their very “being” is comment enough: they stand, in life, as a poetic comment on enduring qualities such as fortitude, loneliness and independence. Their simplicity is a key to their value as symbols. Wordsworth commented, on an earlier version of “Resolution and Independence”:

“A person reading this poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controuled, expecting almost something spiritual or supernatural – What is brought forward? “A lonely place, a Pond” “by which an old man was, far from all house or home” – not stood, not sat, but “was” – the figure presented in the most naked simplicity possible”.

Wordsworth’s solitary figures are drawn with illustrations from all modes of being, all solitary walks of life and, apparently, with little reference to time. “The Old Cumberland Beggar” seems no older than he did when Wordsworth met him: his solitude is less temporal than spatial, and in that sense still speaks to us now.

The concept of the solitary as encompassing many modes of being is illustrated in “The Excursion”, where the person described had an eye

” … that, under brows
Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought
From years of youth; which, like a Being made
Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill
To blend with knowledge of the years to come,
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave”.

The triumph of the solitary figure, suggests Jones, is that he understands that “only the permanent can change”. Such figures are believable in embodying higher spiritual aspirations, rather than in having amusing characteristics. Wordsworth’s primary concern is not with externals: nonetheless, his “recollection in tranquility” of a figure in a landscape would invariably provide images which worked through appearances, these being sustained, concrete descriptions; ideas, abstractions and significances were the more potent for being attached to such imagery.

The importance of solitude, then, in the poetry of Wordsworth, derives from its powerful effect on his imagination, especially during his early life, and, in the poetry itself, is the element which transforms a figure who walks alone into a figure embodying certain unchanging human values. The significance of the natural environment is particularly noticeable in bringing the transformational power of loneliness into a larger perspective. Wordsworth’s imagination was deeply affected by the “Souls of lonely places” and “the sleep that is among the lonely hills”. As he writes in “A Poet’s Epitaph”:

“The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude”.

Wordsworth offers us a stimulating perspective. He prompts us to re-assess our values and reject the unnaturalness of a lifestyle founded on artificialities. He brings into crystal clear focus the spiritual benefits of being more alive to the beauties of the natural environment. Acknowledging that life’s course can be beset with hardships, loneliness and tragedies, he urges us to confront these challenges with strength, optimism and fortitude.

Such advice is as valuable today as it ever was.


Image credits: Anne Tyson’s cottage – FFNick, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

All others – public domain

Leave a comment

Filed under Arts, Health, Literature, Poetry

Book review: Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

You just know when you’re reading the work of a genius.

The first two books in Dame Hilary Mantel‘s trilogy of historical novels set in the Tudor period both won the Man Booker Prize. Wolf Hall was published in April 2009. Bring Up the Bodies followed in May 2012. The final book of the trilogy, The Mirror and the Light, came out in March this year – it’s already been longlisted for the 2020 Booker Prize. Having been enthralled back in 2015 by the six-part BBC TV production of Wolf Hall (which incorporated Bring Up the Bodies), I decided it was about time I went back to its source material …

Wolf Hall relates the rise of Thomas Cromwell from humble beginnings as the son of a (violent) blacksmith to becoming Earl of Essex and Lord Great Chamberlain – in other words, chief adviser and ‘fixer’ to Henry VIII. It’s quite some journey. Although told in the third person, it’s rather like an autobiography, in that we see events through Cromwell’s eyes as he becomes a vehicle, conveying a multi-dimensional picture of Tudor life and society in general and that of his own and other families – notably the royals – in particular.

We quickly pick up on Mantel’s literary device whereby the unexpected “he” pronoun almost invariably refers to Cromwell. Slightly jarring at first, this turns out to enhance the “fly-on-the-wall” effect. The quality of the descriptive prose is awe-inspiring: often it’s as though Cromwell (below) was carrying a video camera in the top pocket of his mink-lined robe. The use of the present tense adds immediacy and oftentimes dramatic effect. Whilst the author utilises established historical facts as a framework for her story, as a novelist she of course makes creative use of gaps in that record (a fascinating process which she described vividly in one of her 2017 Reith Lectures).

The idea of recounting complicated history through an imagined viewpoint of an actual historical personage throws up some intriguing philosophical questions. What is a true account of a historical event? Dates and places and documents provide the historian with a degree of certainty; but the subtleties of the event’s significance in the minds – and the lived lives – of those who were actually participating in that history, at the time, can only be guessed at. And it’s that dimension that the historical novelist inhabits and into which she leads us.

“The past is so close and yet irretrievable”, said Hilary Mantel in an edition of the BBC’s Book Club programme in October 2013. As she described it, it is so close when, say, we’re able to see and touch a dog’s footprints impressed into drying bricks laid on the floor of a real house owned by an important historical character; and yet irretrievable because we can never hear the voices or read the minds of characters whose history and fate we know only too well.

So, arguably the biggest question in all of this, which Mantel posed and answered in one of her Reith Lectures, is: “… what can historical fiction bring to the table? It doesn’t need to flatter. It can challenge and discomfit. If it’s done honestly, it doesn’t say ‘Believe this’, it says ‘Consider this’. It can sit alongside the work of historians – not offering an alternative truth, or even a supplementary truth, but offering insight”.

If you don’t know too much about the bloody and turbulent history of Henry VIII’s reign, this book is a real eye-opener. Thomas Cromwell has roles at every layer of society and rubs up against all the famous names in Henry’s court, such as Cardinal Thomas Wolsey (above left) and Sir Thomas More (below right); he has his own family life, with its triumphs and tragedies, fitted in like an important sub-plot, but with great emotional sensitivity (I’ll avoid spoilers); and, as the history unfolds, his remit expands to take in the unpredictable king’s dealings with feisty English earls, corrupt and/or fanatical religious movers and shakers, potential wives and their scheming families, educational gurus, the intricate but questionable legal and diplomatic systems of Britain and Europe and, significantly, the growing influence of a nascent publishing industry. The often barbaric physical punishments meted out to offenders are described, sometimes in lurid detail; but, more to the point, Mantel forces us to think about the psychological repercussions on those navigating this dangerous landscape, and those fearing or actually facing execution. All this is set at the top of a society controlled by the massive levers of religious and regnal power.

Many of the dramatis personæ walk a tightrope between furthering their own interests and attracting the wrath or disapprobation of figures in positions of greater power, sometimes with horrifyingly fatal consequences. But of course they don’t always know what they are getting into. Mantel’s characters, including Cromwell, have human frailties. They don’t necessarily foresee the consequences of their actions and can attract big trouble merely by (for instance) uttering an unguarded remark, wearing the wrong garb, accidentally criticising the king or by being seen in the company of the wrong person. Personal relationships, motivations, hopes, fears, treachery, ambition, tenderness, God and the law … it’s all here. This is history in the making.

Having said that, Mantel underlines the truth that many people went to their deaths because they refused to deny their deeply-held religious beliefs. Whilst there was much schmoozing, posturing and politicking, religion and the promise of an afterlife held many minds in a vice-like grip, strong enough to withstand even the threat of torture or death by beheading or burning.

This is highly immersive stuff. Even though you, the reader, may know the fate of all the main characters, you still find yourself thinking, “Ah, that should help his case”, or “Oh dear, I don’t think she realises what Henry will think about that!” I must admit, I was often lulled into forgetting what we all know about the ultimate fates of people such as Anne Boleyn (left). At one point I even found myself thinking, “Oh my god, we’re going to meet Hans Holbein!”

If it sounds complex, it is. But it’s not difficult to follow, even though there are eleven Thomases, six Johns, seven Henrys, four Annes (including Anne Boleyn, of course) and four Marys! The five page, informative Cast of Characters and family trees at the front of the book are invaluable and referring to them is part of the fun. Indeed, one of the most impressive aspects of the work is the way Mantel has such a great facility in being able to keep the story moving coherently on so many planes, working with all these characters, right from the lower ranks to the upper echelons. Moves on Mantel’s dazzling 3D chessboard of international politics are made by power players from France, the Low Countries, Spain and Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon (right), not to mention Wolsey’s (and ultimately Cromwell’s) battles with the Pope and the Church of Rome.

It’s interesting that Hilary Mantel studied law. She started as an undergraduate at the LSE, before transferring to the University of Sheffield and graduating as Bachelor of Jurisprudence in 1973. The novel is shot through with references to law, legal proceedings and the tracking down and clever use of evidence. Mantel portrays Cromwell’s rise to eminence as owing everything to his level-headed ability to deal with the practicalities of the capricious Henry’s finances, with all the knotty legal problems that attached thereto. Mantel takes all these matters in her stride, most notably the legalities around the annulment of Henry’s marriage to Katherine and the subsequent break with Rome (though this first element of the trilogy doesn’t quite reach to the dissolution of the monasteries).

These are very substantial books. Wolf Hall is 650 pages long; Bring Up The Bodies (which I’m reading currently) runs to 484 pages; and The Mirror and the Light is a hefty 875 pages. That’s a total of a cool 2,009 pages. For me, they represent the fusing of professorial historical scholarship with a story-telling skillset that is probably unparalleled in the modern age.

“The novelist doesn’t spoil history for others”, adds Hilary Mantel in her Reith lecture. “She doesn’t trash her sources once she’s used them. The archive remains secure. The palaces and battlefields remain as if she had never passed through. Others can visit them, taking their own sensibility. She offers a version of the past. There can be others, and there will be. The novelist owns up to invention”.

Yes, there have been many other versions – in literature, online and on TV. But I find it impossible to imagine a more readable, gripping, thorough and convincing account of this segment of the Tudor period.

It could not have been better done.



Picture credits (all public domain)

Portrait – Thomas Cromwell: Thomas Cromwell, 1532–1533, Hans Holbein the Younger
Portrait – Thomas Wolsey: Cardinal Thomas Wolsey (1475-1530), Royal Minister, Archbishop of York, unknown painter
Portrait – Sir Thomas More: Sir Thomas More, Hans Holbein (1497/1498–1543)
Portrait – Anne Boleyn: Anne Boleyn, late 16th-century copy of a lost original of c.1533–1536
Portrait – Katherine of Aragon: Catherine of Aragon, artist unknown, 18th century copy of a lost original work
Portrait – Henry VIII: Henry VIII of England, after Hans Holbein (1497/1498–1543); after 1537; cropped version of the full portrait, showing the “jags” (ie cuts) in the body and sleeves of the doublet, through which “puffs” of the shirt have been pulled through.

1 Comment

Filed under Arts, History, Literature