The Mirror & the Light by Hilary Mantel
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I devoured Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies some years ago, and pre-ordered Mirror as soon as it was available. It arrived for pickup as we Illannoyans scurried for shelter – imagine my delight when I discovered it was an autographed copy! (Thank you, Anderson’s Bookshop!). Then I stacked them on my bedside table and started back at the beginning.
I finished last night, weeping. Dazzling, sweeping, sly, astonishing. The depth of Mantel’s immersion in this complex world, her marshalling of characters you admire, fear, loathe, weep for, laugh or marvel at, the intricate mastery of a dizzying plot (make that myriad of plots), are just breathtaking. Her craft in laying the groundwork, in touching so deftly on the hairline cracks that begin to creep and spread in Mirror, makes you sit up and go: “UH-oh…” There is the moment when King Henry is worrying about his future, and begins to muse: “… if anything should happen to me, you must…” and trails off. And Cromwell thinks: “Do it. Make me regent.” I literally gasped – there it is. He’s finally articulated it – after a thousand pages of caution, self-restraint, calculation and prudence: the monster ambition speaks. You know it’s always been there, you know it’s coming, and she still shocks you when it does.
I will confess to some moments of… NOT skimming, but, um, reading a little more quickly. I never did get the hang of the ongoing background bickering of le roi Francois and Charles the Emperor. The lengthy detour through the Pilgrims’ rebellion sort of petered out because the weather got bad – it may have happened that way, but it was a bit of a side line. Mantel seems to have decided to fill us in on a lot of clothing, a lot of food, jousting details – all of which are gorgeous, and she gets away with it because Cromwell himself was a cloth merchant and a kitchen man, so those are things he would notice and care about. I read one review elsewhere describing a certain “baggy” quality to Mirror, and that seems apt. But the rest of it is so damn good, I didn’t mind.
The final pages build like a slow tornado, where everything is twisted, hurled, maimed, railroaded. Cromwell knows how it is done – has done it himself, many times. He knows when the jig is up. He begs for mercy, but knows he won’t get it. Each volume ends with a beheading, and though others will follow, his is right up there with Sydney Carton’s for a beautiful agony.
This trilogy should endure as one of the great achievements of 21st century English literature. Ms. Mantel, I salute you with all my heart and admiration.
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