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Authors: John Crace
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the steroids he had been prescribed and had been trying to wean himself off the drugs, both so that he could get a decent erection and to clear his mind for his research.
Madeleine wondered why she had married Leonard. A not unreasonable question, one might have thought, were it not that the narrative was going to take yet another backward leap to again fail to explain why. Like Leonard and Mitchell, she was stuck in a fictive trope and condemned to be a stylistic, one-dimensional irritation.
Mitchell too was in despair; not so much because he had been unable to persuade Madeleine to leave Leonard, but because he knew he was getting on everyone’s nerves by going on for 70 pages about his religious enlightenment and Mother Teresa, yet was powerless to do anything about it because he didn’t really exist. He might have felt a little better if he had known Leonard was also feeling the same way. How he longed to say he wasn’t just a cocktail of drugs and bipolar symptoms and that being depressed didn’t mean he had to be so depressing.
Finally, Leonard cracked. ‘I’m divorcing you, Madeleine,’ he said.
‘I guess this is the moment in romantic fiction when you decideyou’re in love with the good guy,’ said Mitchell. ‘But this is a postmodern romantic novel, so I’m going to leave you to be happy by yourself.’
‘At last,’ said everyone.
Digested read, digested: The Marriage Plod.
Bring Up the Bodies
by Hilary Mantel (2012)
‘It is a great honour to receive you here at Wolf Hall, your majesty,’ says old Sir John Seymour, fresh from tupping his daughter-in-law’s quinny. ‘Though I had rather been expecting you some three years ago, when the first book came out.’
Thomas Cromwell observes Henry’s eyes lingering on Jane Seymour’s heaving, virginal bosom. ‘The King is tiring of Anne and there is no male successor,’ he thinks to himself. ‘A wise Master Secretary would do well to prepare the way for a third marriage –’
‘A wiser Master Secretary would do better to ruminate for a while on the death of his wife and daughters, and conduct imaginary conversations with Sir Thomas More in which he expresses regret that the former Lord Chancellor refused to swear the oath of succession and thus condemned himself to the block,’ Hilary interrupts urgently.
‘And why should I want to do that?’ Cromwell snaps, his mind already on how much money he can make from the dissolution of the monasteries.
‘Because I’m trying to rewrite you as Mr Nice Guy, you moron,’ Hilary says. ‘Instead of the hard bastard you undoubtedly are.’
‘Come, Crumb,’ yells Henry. ‘I need my finest pair of ears to return to court with me.’
‘Gosh, sire, you are much too kind. I just pootle around trying to do silly old me’s inadequate best,’ Cromwell replies. He finds maintaining this self-effacing Stephen Fry shtick annoying, though he has to admit it does make his opponents underestimate him. And Hilary keeps assuring him that the readers love it. ‘But first I must retire to my house in Stepney. This present-tense narrative is making me breathless.’
His spies tell Thomas that Catherine is dying. The news is not unexpected but it is timely, for the Emperor will surely not contemplate making war with Britain once the former Queen is dead. ‘Send my condolences,’ he says. ‘I shall miss her.’
‘You could at least sound as if you mean it,’ Hilary whispers.
‘Would it help if I were to lament the loss of my wife and daughters again?’
‘You learn fast,’ she replies.
‘Ah, there you are, Cremuel!’
Thomas looks up, trying to disguise his irritation. The Queen has addressed him thus ever since the King bought her the Pink Panther box set and he doesn’t find it funny. ‘Gosh, yes, your majesty. Pray tell me what silly old hopeless me can do to help you.’
‘I require an audience with the King.’
He nods, though he has no intention of securing one. Since her latest
Madeleine wondered why she had married Leonard. A not unreasonable question, one might have thought, were it not that the narrative was going to take yet another backward leap to again fail to explain why. Like Leonard and Mitchell, she was stuck in a fictive trope and condemned to be a stylistic, one-dimensional irritation.
Mitchell too was in despair; not so much because he had been unable to persuade Madeleine to leave Leonard, but because he knew he was getting on everyone’s nerves by going on for 70 pages about his religious enlightenment and Mother Teresa, yet was powerless to do anything about it because he didn’t really exist. He might have felt a little better if he had known Leonard was also feeling the same way. How he longed to say he wasn’t just a cocktail of drugs and bipolar symptoms and that being depressed didn’t mean he had to be so depressing.
Finally, Leonard cracked. ‘I’m divorcing you, Madeleine,’ he said.
‘I guess this is the moment in romantic fiction when you decideyou’re in love with the good guy,’ said Mitchell. ‘But this is a postmodern romantic novel, so I’m going to leave you to be happy by yourself.’
‘At last,’ said everyone.
Digested read, digested: The Marriage Plod.
Bring Up the Bodies
by Hilary Mantel (2012)
‘It is a great honour to receive you here at Wolf Hall, your majesty,’ says old Sir John Seymour, fresh from tupping his daughter-in-law’s quinny. ‘Though I had rather been expecting you some three years ago, when the first book came out.’
Thomas Cromwell observes Henry’s eyes lingering on Jane Seymour’s heaving, virginal bosom. ‘The King is tiring of Anne and there is no male successor,’ he thinks to himself. ‘A wise Master Secretary would do well to prepare the way for a third marriage –’
‘A wiser Master Secretary would do better to ruminate for a while on the death of his wife and daughters, and conduct imaginary conversations with Sir Thomas More in which he expresses regret that the former Lord Chancellor refused to swear the oath of succession and thus condemned himself to the block,’ Hilary interrupts urgently.
‘And why should I want to do that?’ Cromwell snaps, his mind already on how much money he can make from the dissolution of the monasteries.
‘Because I’m trying to rewrite you as Mr Nice Guy, you moron,’ Hilary says. ‘Instead of the hard bastard you undoubtedly are.’
‘Come, Crumb,’ yells Henry. ‘I need my finest pair of ears to return to court with me.’
‘Gosh, sire, you are much too kind. I just pootle around trying to do silly old me’s inadequate best,’ Cromwell replies. He finds maintaining this self-effacing Stephen Fry shtick annoying, though he has to admit it does make his opponents underestimate him. And Hilary keeps assuring him that the readers love it. ‘But first I must retire to my house in Stepney. This present-tense narrative is making me breathless.’
His spies tell Thomas that Catherine is dying. The news is not unexpected but it is timely, for the Emperor will surely not contemplate making war with Britain once the former Queen is dead. ‘Send my condolences,’ he says. ‘I shall miss her.’
‘You could at least sound as if you mean it,’ Hilary whispers.
‘Would it help if I were to lament the loss of my wife and daughters again?’
‘You learn fast,’ she replies.
‘Ah, there you are, Cremuel!’
Thomas looks up, trying to disguise his irritation. The Queen has addressed him thus ever since the King bought her the Pink Panther box set and he doesn’t find it funny. ‘Gosh, yes, your majesty. Pray tell me what silly old hopeless me can do to help you.’
‘I require an audience with the King.’
He nods, though he has no intention of securing one. Since her latest
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