books

Lessons from Wolf Hall

Every aspiring writer knows that the first thing you have to do to improve is to read voraciously. Not a problem for me – most of the time reading is what I’d rather be doing anyway.

No, the problem comes when you read something so darned brilliant that you wonder what on earth is the point of carrying on writing, since in order to produce something even halfway as good you would probably have to live to be 193.

Fortunately, I have learned the hard way (and so has my family, unfortunately) that if I don’t write I become a grumpy old cow who is not worth living with. So after I read Wolf Hall I resisted the temptation to throw all my notebooks on a bonfire and instead decided to list, calmly, some of the things that a beginner writer like me could learn from a master like Hilary Mantel.

Make historical detail work hard

Thomas Cromwell, portrait by Hans Holbein the Younger

Obviously a novel set in the past needs to be full of historical detail but there is always a danger that the writer’s research will come over as just that – dry facts rather than part of an engrossing story. Mantel never falls into this trap. She weaves all the elements of her novel into a seamless whole, and makes the historical facts really work for their place in the story.

There’s an incident near the start, for example, where Thomas Cromwell is trying to run away to sea. He meets ‘three elderly Lowlanders struggling with their bundles and moves to help them. The packages are soft and bulky, samples of woollen cloth.’ As the elderly trio struggle with an obnoxious official, Cromwell fools around, ‘pretending to be a Lowland oaf’, and wins the official over with a bribe. Delighted, the Lowlanders claim Cromwell as their own and get him aboard. So in this one little incident, Mantel has developed her novel in various ways. She has added detail and colour to the historical world she is creating – the wool trade was vital to Scotland back then but the official’s behaviour is a sign of how unpopular the Scots could be in England. She has also built up Cromwell’s character: this quick thinking and ability to win the trust of people across the social spectrum will prove crucial to his success. Finally, she has progressed the plot by using the incident as a way of getting him on board a ship and off on the travels that will inform much of what he does in the rest of the book.

Metaphor

Even a beginner like me can see that if your story is told from the point of view of someone who lived in the past you have to use metaphors that are historically appropriate. You can’t have your medieval hero calling his love rival a potato-head. Mantel does metaphor with brilliance, again making her sentences achieve more than one thing at a time. Take this description of the Duke of Norfolk, for example, where the metaphors not only call forth his appearance but also place him firmly in his historical context: ‘Flint-faced and keen-eyed, he is lean as a gnawed bone and as cold as an axe head; his joints seem knitted together of supple chain links …’.

Remember that some things about people never change

The historical novelist has to have characters that belong in their period while still being people that the reader can relate to. One of the ways Mantel does this is by describing little quirks and gestures that we can recognise from people we know today. When she combines this kind of universal gesture with more period detail, then the characters become believable both in their timelessness and in their specific situation. Well-dressed young men have always fiddled with their clothes, for example, and George, Lord Rochford is no exception: ‘Today what fascinates him is the flame-coloured satin that is pulled through his slashed velvet over-sleeve. He keeps coaxing the little puffs of fabric with a fingertip, pleating and nudging them and encouraging them to grow bigger, so that he looks like one of those jugglers who run balls down their arms.’

Play with the readers’ knowledge of what happened next

Elizabeth I, c. 1575, unknown artist

The fact that readers already know what happened in the past obviously has to be borne in mind. Nobody today is going to be shocked if Anne Boleyn loses her head. Mantel shows how it is possible to have a little fun with this. For example, she has Cranmer say of the ‘poor little scrap’, the red-headed baby who is the future Elizabeth I, that ‘perhaps God intends some peculiar blessing by this princess’. As a reader you like that, you like being in the know, being actually superior to Henry VIII, who ‘sounds dubious’ when he replies: ‘My dear friend I am sure you are right.’

Wolf Hall: it’s a writer’s masterclass, as well as a brilliant read. Though perhaps the two always go together.

 

the power and the story

This picture is one of my favourite from the Storying Sheffield exhibition that I wrote about here. It turns out it’s also an apt illustration for the book I finished just a day later – The Long Song by Andrea Levy.

The Long Song  is a powerful novel about a black woman living through slavery in Jamaica. No obvious link with Storying Sheffield there, but in fact both have similar issues at their heart: how do we tell stories and what happens when we do?

In particular – how can people who lack power tell stories? In The Long Song, the people with power can paint over the bits of a story that they don’t like. So the white painter refuses to include ‘the disgusting negro hovels’ in his depiction of the plantation. And the plantation owner’s sister retells a suicide event as a story of murder, framing an innocent black man in the process. But even when the black, female narrator is in court and being harangued about the importance of telling the truth, she is not given a proper chance to speak.

In an interview at the end of the book, Levy describes how her research into the history of slavery revealed very few surviving documents where black slaves speak of and for themselves. ‘Little writing or testimony has emerged that was not filtered at the time through a white understanding or serving a white narrative – whether it be the apologists for slavery and the West Indian planter classes, or their opponents, the abolitionists,’ she writes.

For Levy, fiction can provide an answer. ‘Writing fiction is a way of putting back the voices that were left out,’ she says. ‘I wanted to put back in the voices of everyday life for black Jamaicans that are so silent in the record.’

This is an interesting angle on the historical novel, that strange and fascinating blend of the recorded and the imagined. For Levy, the combination of historical research and her own imagination meant she could ‘breathe back the life of ordinary people into the skeleton of recorded events’. Her central character, a black house slave called July, leaps from the pages as a passionate, charming and often cunning woman. Dramatic events like the Baptist War happen around her, but they are not as prominent as her strong and captivating telling of the details of her life.

By giving a voice to one, fictional woman and the people she has contact with, the novel explodes the conventional narrative, summarised by Levy as ‘almost … a morality play with the planters as the villains, Wilberforce as the white knight and the slaves as simply a mass of wretched voiceless victims’. Instead the reader enters a complex, unique society full of strong and vibrant characters getting on with their individual lives, even in circumstances where their very humanity is denied.

For Levy this creative act gave her a new perspective on her ancestors. Her determination to trawl through mountains of racist documents for her research is frankly amazing, but at the end of her afterword she describes how the experience of writing the book left her with a sense not of horror but of awe.

‘Our slave ancestors were much more than a mute and wretched mass of victims and we do them a great disservice if we think of them as such,’ she writes. ‘If history has kept them silent then we must conjure their voices ourselves and listen to their stories. Stories through which we can rememember them, marvel at what they endured, what they achieved, and what they have bequeathed to us all.’

Levy’s tone is upbeat. Nevertheless, there is something heartbreaking about people having to have their stories imagined for them because they were never allowed to tell them when they were alive.

That’s one of the reasons why Storying Sheffield is so important. People who have previously been unheard get a voice, and because the university is supporting them, the whole profile of storytelling is raised. There’s an enormously positive vibe around the project. For me, this is at least partly because it connects with something deep within the psyche, something that recognises that to tell our own stories is both a right and a necessity. The best stories are the ones that belong to you.