by Henry VIII joins a book club and discovers that six strong opinions in one living room outrank a monarch
I once silenced disagreement with a single raised hand. My book club interrupted me four times in one sentence and none of them noticed doing it.
The Selection
The group had chosen a historical novel about the Tudor court, a choice made, I later learned, several weeks before I joined and entirely without knowledge of my own particular relationship to the material, and I arrived to find myself expected to discuss, as fiction, events I had personally lived through with considerably less narrative flourish and considerably more genuine anxiety at the time.
The First Objection
I attempted to correct a scene the group praised as historically vivid, explaining that the actual conversation it depicted never took place in that room, on that date, or in that tone, and a woman named Marguerite informed me firmly that it was, and I quote, still a valid artistic interpretation, and that I should try engaging with the text rather than, in her words, relitigating the sixteenth century.
The Wine
Book club convened over wine poured generously and refilled without asking, a hosting style I found genuinely admirable, having spent considerable effort in my own reign ensuring wine was poured exactly according to rank and never a drop more for anyone below a duke. Here, apparently, everyone outranks a duke, provided they brought a decent bottle and arrived before the second chapter was discussed.
The Character Debate
A genuine argument broke out over whether the character based on my third wife was portrayed sympathetically enough, an argument I attempted to settle definitively by explaining what she was actually like, only to be told by two separate members that lived experience does not automatically make for better literary criticism, a sentence I have turned over in my head for several days since and still cannot decide whether I find it wise or simply infuriating.
The Next Book
The group has selected a novel about the French Revolution for next month, and I have already been warned, gently but firmly, by the host, a retired librarian named Colette, that my personal proximity to certain historical events does not grant me additional speaking time, a rule I have decided to accept gracefully, mostly because Colette makes excellent bread and I would very much like to be invited back regardless of whose century gets discussed next.
Next Month’s Chapter
Colette has already assigned me a specific section of the French Revolution novel to focus my comments on, one involving neither kings nor executions, which she delivered with a small private smile that suggested she has read considerably more history than she lets on. I have decided book club is, on balance, the most honest interrogation I face all month, more searching than any council meeting I ever chaired, and I intend to keep showing up, opinions intact, sentence completion optional.
Marguerite’s opinion on lived experience versus criticism could, frankly, have its own entry in the art of losing your head. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: Harlan Coben’s own formal order to stop writing, the desperate promoter who first booked me off the back of my own grave, the pub that finally made me feel properly at home again.
