Little Bee / Chris Cleave

Talk about coming late to the party: Chris Cleave's Little Bee (Simon & Schuster, $14.00 paperback) made its resounding critical splash in 2009. When a book is much-hyped my instinct is to avoid it, for reasons I can't always fathom. But I've been watching Little Bee pick up a second wind in paperback this year, and when a copy fell into my hand I decided the gods were sending me a message.

I have not cried this much while reading a book for a very long time. It took me two nights to read Little Bee, during which I entered the early hours of the morning clutching a fistful of tear-sodden tissues. Everything about it -- the cover, the blurb on the back, the glowing praise from People and O Magazine -- suggests a story that will ultimately resolve itself through an affirmation of humanity's innate goodness. But instead of presenting a cleanly wrapped emotional package of love triumphing over sorrow and despair, Chris Cleave ruthlessly, albeit beautifully, skewers your heart.

This is a powerful, genuine novel that more than earns its considerable critical accolades. If you haven't yet considered it seriously, I urge you to pony up for the paperback, but prepare yourself; it is only for the strong of soul, and while quick to read it is difficult to forget.

Buy it here: Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Borders • IndieBound • Simon & Schuster

Wolf Hall / Hilary Mantel

I’m coming late to the party on this one—several months after Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall (Henry Holt & Co., $27.00) won the National Book Critics Circle Award for fiction, and almost a year after it won the Man Booker Prize, I tackled the lengthy novel.

A friend gave it to me, endorsing it by telling me that she had finished it in a four-day blitz. It took me nearly a month, and although I was admittedly juggling several other books at the time, I’m not surprised it took so long. Wolf Hall was a long, slow journey for this reader. Every step the story took towards the coronation of Anne Boleyn, in the inevitable onward slog of history, felt as incremental and hard-won as it might have felt for Thomas Cromwell, Mantel’s protagonist. And every pronoun with an unclear antecedent—Cromwell is mostly referred to as “he,” and Mantel doesn’t bother to clarify her terms when another male character enters the scene—is as disorienting as the last. You never quite gain your balance when reading Wolf Hall.

But working for Mantel’s novel are her unsentimental, sparse prose, and the immediately sympathetic—nay, lovable—Cromwell. If history is complicated and stripped of its romance here, the orchestrations of Henry VIII overwhelmed by the constant negotiations of his lawyers and courtiers, Cromwell’s rich inner life more than makes up for it. So much so, in fact, that I find myself eagerly awaiting the rumored sequel.

A slow-paced book of subtle, but certainly worthwhile, rewards.

Buy it here: Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Borders • IndieBound • Henry Holt & Co.