This book was shockingly good, even with advance warning from everyone else who had clued in earlier and already read it. My first happy surprise with the book was seeing Mantel leap forward straight to adulthood; so many times these kinds of stories marinate in adolescence, try to be another bildungsroman, the main character slowly learning about the world, and receiving stilted exposition as a benefit and curse. Cromwell comes to us as someone fully-forged, hard as steel yet laced with his history.

At the same time, though, Cromwell's low-born origins and foreign adventures inform almost every event in the novel, such as his talent in finding able mentees. And his polylingual skills come in handy for both him and Mantel, allowing him to spy on secret conversations, and the narrative to stay glued to Cromwell while incorporating things he normally wouldn't (or shouldn't) have known.

We get most of these insights through Cromwell's own thoughts, which form a sort of marginalia to the actual events taking place. It's a wonderful effect, but also kind of a necessary one to humanize his character. Rendered more objectively, he'd become a Mary Sue—remarkable in every way, seemingly imperfect.

Mantel's gift is in portraying everyone as schemers: King Henry, Anne & Mary, Thomas More, and Cromwell most of all. Indeed, these portrayals transform our understanding of Cromwell; instead of being a gutless schemer, we learn that he's simply better at scheming than everyone else. His pliability is transformed from weak morals into an asset, and his aims are always tied to the perpetuation of his household.

If there's any flaw to the book, it's this pliability; Cromwell comes across as someone almost too perfect, able to swiftly dispatch any setbacks in his rise to power. Indeed, his setbacks are from events outside of his control, and often predicted in a way. From talking with others who have read the next book (Bring up the Bodies), this gap is remedied there. Still, though, Mantel sells his character so deftly that it's hard to even notice this propensity amongst the delicious language and enjoyable thinking.

As a whole, the book is so wonderful that it's no surprise Mantel won the Man Booker prize (and equally unsurprising that the sequel would win again). Any critique would have to begin by questioning the strengths: is a straightforward novel like this unable to interrogate and change us in the way truly great fiction can? The language is delicious, but is there something inherently good about working our way through difficult reading, in strengthening those muscles and readying ourselves for wider vistas? My own impulses run towards the (post)modernist, so I want to say yes to both of those. But still, though, my heart flutters for Cromwell.