Wolf Hall is not an easy read. Related by Cromwell in an almost stream-of-consciousness third person, it can leave pronoun references unclear, and also narratives: “Boatman. River. Saint.” Cromwell knows the story; we should too. But these are quibbles, and this masterwork is full of gems for the careful reader. The recurring details alone — a wife, a turquoise ring, a small dog named Bella — shine through like some kind of Everyman’s poetry. Plainspoken and occasionally brutal, Wolf Hall is both as complex and as powerful as its subject, as messy as life itself.
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