Everyone Dies (not a spoiler!): Hilary Mantel's WOLF HALL and BRING UP THE BODIES

71901109 Thomas Cromwell, by Hans Holbein the Younger ca. 1530. Chalk on paper. The Bridgeman Art Library/Getty Images

There Are No Endings

A review of WOLF HALL (2009) and BRING UP THE BODIES (2012) by Hilary Mantel. Henry Holt & Co.

This summer I fell in love with an old man. He had a tough childhood, left home early and took off for Italy and France, where he somehow talked his way into a series of better and better positions, despite having never gone to school. He learned several languages; people said he could recite the entire New Testament from memory. That wasn't what impressed me. What I loved about him was his sense of humor, his sense of absurdity. He was enormously ambitious and didn't try to hide it and yes, he was ambitious for money but mostly he wanted power. Not the flashy kind of power — he didn't want to be King — but the real power that comes from working the levers behind the scenes. As he - Thomas Cromwell, the hero of Mantel's genius novels WOLF HALL and BRING UP THE BODIES, puts it:

How can he explain to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from his border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from castle walls, but from countinghouses, not by the call of the bugle but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot.

Most critics read these books a few years back, when they were first published. It took me three tries to get into WOLF HALL and it's not that they're difficult books, exactly, but they are so much their own thing, nearly their own genre - the super-historical super-novel - that I think I just needed to make a mental switch. And once I did, that was it: two weeks of solid reading (about 11oo pages between the two books) that I wished would never, ever end.

Mantel is telling the story of Thomas Cromwell and his role as advisor to King Henry VIII of England in the early 1500s. What most of us know about this period is Henry's deadly sequence of marriages and the supposed heroism of Thomas More, the Chancellor who refused to give Henry permission to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Mantel's is a completely different vision, with Thomas More as the priggish fundamentalist eager to torture and kill those who dared to read the Bible in English (as opposed to Latin) and Cromwell as More's progressive, surely-there's-a-reasonable-solution-to-all-the-world's-problems foil and, eventually, successor (More was executed for treason with Cromwell's help in 1535).

Cromwell is no angel, of course, but he has a few things More lacks: a sense of proportion; a sense of humor; a lack of fanaticism; intellectual curiosity. Here's Mantel's version of Cromwell, musing on his rival Thomas More:

He never sees More—a star in another firmament, who acknowledges him with a grim nod—without wanting to ask him, what’s wrong with you? Or what’s wrong with me? Why does everything you know, and everything you’ve learned, confirm you in what you believed before? Whereas in my case, what I grew up with, and what I thought I believed, is chipped away a little and a little, a fragment then a piece and then a piece more. With every month that passes, the corners are knocked off the certainties of this world: and the next world too. Show me where it says, in the Bible, “Purgatory.” Show me where it says “relics, monks, nuns.” Show me where it says “Pope."

I don't think it's possible to fall in love with these two incredible novels without also falling in love with Cromwell. Even as he leads Anne Boleyn to her death, we walk with him, right up to the edge because, like King Henry, we trust Cromwell. Mantel's description, which is essentially Cromwell's perspective, of the execution of Anne Boleyn is as intimate, devastating, and surprising as we have been led to expect by this point in the novels. This is Anne with her executioner:  "Silent, she steadies herself against his shoulder, leans into him: intent, complicit, ready for the next thing they will do together, which is kill her."

Yes, Anne Boleyn dies. But we knew that. And we know Cromwell eventually has his day, too (though I try to put that out of my consciousness even now). EVERYONE DIES. Mantel's magic is in her understanding of the way we are all of humans trapped in linear time. No matter how well we think we understand that every man and woman's story can end in only one way, we spend our time fixated on the moment, forgetful of the fate awaiting us all. WOLF HALL and BRING UP THE BODIES are studies in this time-shifting consciousness, filled with small moments of passion, sorrow, and humor, like this aside from Cromwell in the midst of a tense secret negotiation: "The trouble with England, he thinks, is that it’s so poor in gesture. We shall have to develop a hand signal for “Back off, our prince is fucking this man’s daughter.”" And yet the momentum of the novels, as with our own lives, is relentlessly forward, rushing to the inevitable end.We know what's going to happen to Anne Boleyn and yet we hang on the flirtation between Anne and Henry as if anything could happen, something good, even. Despite everything we know.

And this is Thomas Cromwell's talent, the thing that sets him above his rivals: he knows the only strategy is in playing the game several steps ahead. "They will find him armoured, they will find him entrenched," thinks Cromwell, "they will find him stuck like a limpet to the future." Cromwell is above all a realist. Having barely survived a hellish childhood, he's happy to be alive and wants to stay that way… as long as he can. "He has studied the world without despising it. He understands the world without rejecting it. He has no illusions but he has hopes." He's a modern man in a medieval world. He would be modern in a 21st century world, for that matter.

THE MIRROR AND THE LIGHT will be the sequel to BRING UP THE BODIES and it may be published as early as 2015, but who knows? It will be Mantel's third novel in the series. I can't bring myself to refer to it as a concluding volume, because I want her to write them into infinity. We know that these books must end — and we know how. Yet even the very last sentence of BRING UP THE BODIES gives us hope (don't worry, it won't spoil anything):

There are no endings. If you think so you are deceived as to their nature. They are all beginnings. Here is one.

 

One nation, not exactly under God.

Eye

 

NATURE’S GOD: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic by Matthew Stewart (W.W. Norton, 2014), 566 pp. This review was originally published in the Boston Globe BOOKS section, July 19, 2014.

“The Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion.” So begins Article XI of the 1797 Treaty of Tripoli, which was read aloud in the US Senate and ratified unanimously. Our second president, John Adams, who detested the “spirit of dogmatism and bigotry in clergy and laity” and regarded the resurrection of Jesus as “an absurdity,” promptly signed the treaty into law. It was no big deal then. So why does it all sound so surprising now?

Matthew Stewart’s enthralling and important new book, “Nature’s God: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic,’’ argues that we misremember the philosophical and religious origins of the American Revolution. Stewart, who holds a PhD in philosophy from Oxford University, is the author of previous books on the history of Western philosophy, and once again he happily rips into the original sources of Enlightenment thought, this time discovering a radical and profoundly humanistic worldview underlying the American Revolution.

The book is a pleasure to read, its often surprising conclusions supported by elegant prose and more than 1,000 footnotes. Stewart’s erudite analysis confidently rebuts the creeping campaign of Christian nationalism to “ ‘take back’ the nation and make it what it never in fact was.” The next time someone like Jerry Falwell asserts that the United States is “a Christian nation,” he’ll have to answer to “Nature’s God.’’

The United States, Stewart writes, was in fact founded by a “club of radical philosophers and their fellow travelers” who were known as deists in their day and today would be called “humanists, atheists, pantheists, freethinkers, [or] Universalists.” “America’s revolutionary deism remains an uncomfortable and underreported topic,” writes Stewart, and in his view the Revolutionary leaders — famous men like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, as well as “Forgotten Founding Fathers” such as Thomas Young, one of the organizers of the Boston Tea Party — are themselves partly to blame, since for the most part they veiled their religious unorthodoxy for fear of condemnation.

Franklin, for example, urged his friend Ezra Stiles not to “expose me to Criticism and censure” by making his deistic beliefs known. George Washington, who refused to kneel in church or to take communion, simply declined to answer when asked by clerics whether he believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. “[T]he old fox was too cunning for them,” his friend and fellow freethinker Jefferson noted approvingly.

Does it matter in what or in whom the men who wrote our nation’s founding documents believed? After all, we still have the documents; surely those speak for themselves. Yet over 200 years later we are more absorbed with questions about original intent than ever, and the debate in particular over religious freedom — and freedom from religion — grows louder every day. “Nature’s God’’ makes significant new contributions to our understanding of what the founders had in mind.

As Stewart points out, the “broad plurality of people in America remained active and observant within some variety or other of relatively orthodox religion,” and the radical humanism of the Revolutionary leaders “was simply not representative of its people in this respect.” Jefferson nevertheless believed that the Declaration of Independence would inspire people “to burst the chains under which monkish ignorance and superstition had persuaded them to bind themselves, and to assume the blessings and security of self-government.” His views on religion may have differed from most of his countrymen, but in the end he was the one planning and writing the Declaration.

It was Jefferson, too, who invoked “Nature’s God” in the Declaration of Independence’s first sentence. But this was not “the fictitious, meddling deity of the religious imagination but . . . nature itself or the universe comprehended as a whole. It is a way of talking about God long after God is dead.” This is Nature as God, the “presiding deity of the American Revolution.”

To uncover the origins of this revolutionary philosophy, Stewart embarks on a deep investigation into the history of ideas. Just as Stephen Greenblatt argued in 2011’s historical blockbuster, “The Swerve,’’ Stewart cites the the “revival of Epicurean philosophy that followed upon the rediscovery of Lucretius in early modern Europe” as “the decisive episode in the history of modern thought.” He then follows “Epicurus’s dangerous idea” to the 13 Colonies, where its inherently secular, materialist message focused on the importance of attaining a peaceful, happy life during this lifetime, not after death, and inspired a vision of a nation founded on reason, not on faith.

He finds ample evidence of Epicurean influence in the writings of known intellectuals such as Jefferson and Franklin and in some unexpected places, too. “Oracles of Reason’’ (1784), the almost completely forgotten philosophical manifesto of the American revolutionary Ethan Allen, “testifies to the presence in the remotest regions of revolutionary America of modes of thought that have almost universally been regarded as too old, too radical, and too continental to have played a role in the foundation of the American republic.” The thrill Stewart feels upon its discovery is infectious. “Opening its pages,” he exults, “is like discovering an empty bottle of whisky on the moon.”

When he stepped down from his position as commander of the Continental Army in 1783, Washington made a point of reminding his countrymen: “The foundation of our empire was not laid in the gloomy age of Ignorance and Superstition.” The question “Nature’s God’’ implicitly asks is whether we ought to take Washington at his word.

"A great shock, and a great, great joy": James Gleick's CHAOS: Making a New Science.

Review: Chaos: Making a New Science by James Gleick. (Penguin: 1987/2012) 384 pp.  

imgres-4

The humble, fractal cauliflower. Its fractal structure is evident in the way that its structural patterns repeat over and over again on ever-smaller scales. 

 

There are two ways of looking at it. From one perspective, the fact that I was stunned and shocked by a 26 year-old book subtitled "Making a New Science" was depressing; I mean, why hadn't I learned this stuff 26 years ago? From the other, the fact that James Gleick's magnificent book Chaos: Making a New Science (Penguin: 1987, 384 pp.) still had the power to blow my mind merely reinforces the book's central thesis: Chaos theory can be overwhelmingly obvious and invisible at the same time. Like gravity, it was always a central fact that governed everything we did, it just took a genius like Isaac Newton to "discover" it.  I'm grateful and humbled to finally have discovered this book.

I was already a huge fan of his most recent book, The Information: A History, a Theory, a Flood (Vintage: 2012, 544 pp.) so I was ready to like Chaos. But he does something different in each book. In The Information Gleick starts with something we're all familiar with, the World Wide Web, and lifts the screen to reveal how it got there. Along the way it becomes the story of the alphabet, the "talking" drums of Africa, Morse Code and a million other forms of communication. It's a masterpiece.

In Chaos Gleick goes in the opposite direction, taking seemingly unpredictable phenomena -- global weather, long-term stock market pricing, the timing intervals of a dripping faucet -- and revealing that "within the most disorderly realms of data lived an unexpected order." Chaos theory, which applies to dynamical systems, is a bizarre mix of predictability (when a dynamical process involving three or more initial variables is set in motion, we can predict that certain patterns will eventually emerge) and unpredictability (although patterns will emerge, we cannot precisely predict what outcome will happen at what time, if ever).

The rules of chaos (that's not a contradictory statement) result in similarly confounding realities. Gleick quotes mathematician Arthur Lorenz, one of the founders of chaos theory and the person who coined the term "the butterfly effect," saying: "We might have trouble forecasting the temperature of [this cup of] coffee one minute in advance, but we should have little difficulty in forecasting it an hour ahead." That is, we know the coffee's temperature will eventually equilibriate with the room and air temperature. But between now and then, the forces of convection, cooling and friction are so complicated and chaotic, it's impossible to predict exactly what will happen in the first minute.

It would take thousands of words to adequately describe all the features of chaos that Gleick manages to illuminate in the book. But his most profound contribution is in helping the reader understand something intuitive: "Our feeling for beauty is inspired by the harmonious arrangement of order and disorder as it occurs in natural objects--in clouds, trees, mountain ranges, or snow crystals. The shapes of all these are dynamical processes jelled into physical forms," explains physicist Gert Eilenberger, and those dynamical processes are chaotic, with all the beautiful fractal patterns associated with them. The structure of snowflakes, of seashells, of the Milky Way, of whirlpools and fingerprints, all these owe their beauty and form to chaos theory.

Very few writers can translate difficult science into readable and fascinating prose like Gleick. As far as I can tell, both the scientists he interviews and the reading public feel he is on "their" side and I think they're both right. Like the mathematical foundation of the theory itself, Chaos is a beautiful and profound book that helped me reconsider physics, philosophy and the universe itself.

Gleick captures both the concrete details of this science along with the revelatory and emotional resonance the discovery of chaos theory has had on the people who work in the field. "It's an experience like no other I can describe," said physicist Leo Kadanoff, "the best thing that can happen to a scientist, realizing that something that's happened in his or her own mind exactly corresponds to something that happens in nature. It's startling every time it occurs... A great shock, and a great, great joy." Which was exactly my experience of reading this book.

I'll Never Be a Final Girl; or, On Not Reading Justin Cronin's Excellent Novel, The Passage.

Justin Cronin,  The Passage (Ballantine: 2010), 784 pages.

imgres

Jamie Lee Curtis, as "final girl" Laurie Strode in Halloween (1978).

 

 

I just couldn't do it. But I did try. I'd heard great things about The Passage, the 700+ page thriller by Justin Cronin. I checked the ebook out from my local public library and downloaded it to my Kindle and began tearing through it like a death-row inmate infected by a terrifyingly aggressive Amazonian bat virus... YIKES.

I've had this problem before, in fact I've had it all my life: I'm too squeamish for horror. The only scary movie I truly love is The Shining, which is less a horror movie than a Kubrick movie. All his movies are scary in some way (though The Shining is much less scary when recut as a family-friendly comedy, as seen here). The only reason I got any enjoyment out of Halloween, the 1978 John Carpenter movie, was because I was able to watch it on a meta-level, with Jamie Lee Curtis as the classic "final girl", the victim who overcomes her torturers, thanks to Carol Clover's fantastic book, Men, Women & Chain Saws: Gender in Modern Horror Film. (Alert: BEST BOOK TITLE EVER).

I tried to read Stephen King's The Stand and quit once it got too... horrific. But I had high hopes for The Passage, perhaps because I thought it would be more of a dystopian fantasy along the lines of The Hunger Games (a novel about children killing each other - is there anything more horrifying?), which I was able to appreciate, if not enjoy.

The Passage begins with a classic Hubris of Man setup: American scientists hacking through the South American jungle in search of a miracle virus that will cure cancer and, possibly, death. Where are the bioethicists when you need them? Not in this scene, unfortunately, and thus a killer virus begins its journey from hidden bat cave to the rest of the planet. We then cut to various character setups: the early life of young Amy Bellafonte, the girl who will save the world; Brad Wolgast, the FBI agent who will save Amy; etc. We see the initial stages of disaster unfolding faster than the general public realizes or could even imagine and it's thrilling, as a thriller should be. The writing is perfect: fast but not cheap. A young cop is described as "a fresh recruit with a face pink as a slice of ham" and storm clouds are "a wall of spring thunderheads ascending from the horizon like a bank of blooming flowers in a time-lapse video."

This was all good. Exciting, fun, great language. But then it got scary. I'm not even going to get into it, because if you like this kind of thing you will read it for yourself and if you don't it will just sound icky. It is icky, but more than that, it's actually frightening. Cronin succeeds in describing an apocalypse that will make you worry not just about bats but about future natural disasters and what happens when the things that keep society glued together break down, from communication pathways (Wolgast realizes things are getting really bad when USA Today is reduced to two short pages) to electrical power plants to food production systems. And VAMPIRES! There, I said it.

I always enjoy the setups more than the outcomes, whether it's Harry Potter first encountering Diagon Alley to buy his wizardry supplies or walking through Dignan's 75-year plan for success in Wes Anderson's first movie, Bottle Rocket (1996), but in the case of horror it turns out it's the only part I am capable of enjoying. The decision to not finish it, however, did allow me the pleasure of spoiling the entire series (The Passage is the first of three novels, two of which have been published so far) by reading its Wikipedia page, something I also do on a guilt-free basis when the Game of Thrones books bog down. I recommend it.

So I apologize, Justin Cronin. You've written a terrific horror novel. It's just too scary to read.

At a distance of a thousand miles: Isaac Asimov and "The Last Question" (1956)

File:I_Robot_-_Runaround

(Is that a terrific book cover OR WHAT?)

It was probably my dad, Jon A. Jackson, who introduced me to the work of Isaac Asimov. I dug it right away. Not just Asimov's imagination and the thrill of wondering what the future would look like, but the direct style of Asimov's writing: concise and clean. No matter how far-out his ideas were, the story itself was always grounded in a pragmatic, conversational style that to me still feels like midcentury America, full of average Joes and Janes drinking coffee and solving problems, whether on Earth or in a spaceship orbiting Mars.

Last year my nephew Jack was turning 13 and I wanted to introduce him to some classic science fiction, so I sent him a copy of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 (1953) and Asimov's I, Robot (1950). But when I read the synopsis for I, Robot, I wondered if it was the book I really had in mind. I remembered a series of stories about the evolution of artificial intelligence (AI), beginning with early computers and robots and ending somewhere in deep space where a vast computer brain floats, holding the fate of ongoing life in its circuitry. I, Robot fit some of those criteria - it does trace the development of AI and introduces Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics, which were influential in actual robotic technology in the real world. I wondered if I'd just mis-remembered the book and then I moved on to other important issues such as, What am I going to make for dinner tonight?

[SPOILER ALERT: If you want to know which Asimov story I was really remembering but don't want the rest of it spoiled, just skip to the bottom.]

That was about a year ago. A few months ago I decided to reread I,Robot myself. I enjoyed it but it wasn't the novel I remembered. So a few days ago I thought about it again and I had that brilliant thought I have once every few days: Why don't I just ask the Internet? So I Googled: "Asimov story let there be light."

And yes, there was light. See, in my memory the Asimov book ends with this super-advanced computer solving the problem of how to reverse entropy by uttering the phrase "Let there be light." Trust me, it makes sense in context. What the Google search revealed was the Asimov story "The Last Question" (1956) and an entire Wikipedia page devoted to it, which included the following comment from Asimov in 1973:

Then, too, it has had the strangest effect on my readers. Frequently someone writes to ask me if I can give them the name of a story, which they think I may have written, and tell them where to find it. They don't remember the title but when they describe the story it is invariably "The Last Question". This has reached the point where I recently received a long-distance phone call from a desperate man who began, 'Dr. Asimov, there's a story I think you wrote, whose title I can't remember – ' at which point I interrupted to tell him it was "The Last Question" and when I described the plot it proved to be indeed the story he was after. I left him convinced I could read minds at a distance of a thousand miles.

Here we are, over 50 years later, and the story is still having this effect. On me, for sure. I reread "The Last Question" and was once again floored by Asimov's mix of pragmatism and imagination. It still holds up. At less than 5,000 words it is so totally realized that I remembered it as a novel, not a story. There's a reason the desperate man on the phone - and I - still remember it: "The Last Question" is a story not only about the fate of mankind but the fate of the entire universe. In under 5,000 words! It handles the issues with humor and seriousness and radical economy. And with what we now know about climate change and the Great Extinction period in which we're now living, the story is relevant in a new way.

Sometimes when we go back to the science fiction of the mid-twentieth century it can seem quaintly retro with its man-in-the-gray-flannel-suit conversational styles and the gee-whiz of it all. Then again, in 1956 Asimov and his readers were only thirteen years away from a man walking on the moon. As of 2013, it's been forty years since the last moon walk. Makes you wonder what happened to the Space Age future we were all supposed to be living in.

Read it for yourself: The Last Question by Isaac Asimov (1956)