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Pamela (xxxx) was not the first novel to start a craze ? Defoe's Robinson Crusoe (xxxx) inspired sequels, pamphlets, and even a restaurant ? and nor was it the first novel to be denounced; but the quality and intensity of attention it received resonated far beyond that particular book and the characters and fashions described therein. Pamela, and the controversy it sparked, transformed a loose, inchoate form into the modern novel. Pamela shifted attention away from events and questions of truthfulness onto character and questions of believability. Early novels, like Oroonoko and Moll Flanders, made truth claims, stressing that the events they described really happened. Pamela purported to be a true story as well, but because the stakes were so high ? social advancement through the power of narrative ? Pamela's believability, rather than Pamela's fictiveness, took center stage: responses such as Henry Fielding's Shamela (xxxx) argued that Pamela was a hypocrite; he asserted that her virtue was fictional, not her existence. Pamela's epistolary format, its insistent location in the present tense, instantly raised questions of character, of self-presentation, and of the ability ever really to gain access to the workings of another person's mind, in life or fiction. Pamela did not just spark a craze: it redefined the way both writers and readers approached the novel. Carolyn Steadman argues that Pamela ?is all selfhood, all inside, and [her] depth as a point of reference for female interiority has been immense.? But it was not only women who viewed both Pamela and Pamela as touchstones.England's seventeenth-century intellectual revolution is often taken to have launched a revolutionary approach to the truth that led, by the time of the eighteenth century, to the new genre of the novel. So far as it goes, that account cannot be gainsaid: new methods, based either on direct observation or on inference from statistical regularities, introduced a novel language and tonality for approximating the truth. Literary imitations of personally verified truth and of ?political arithmetic? followed in due course: Daniel Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year (xxxx) illustrates both at once. A new ?culture of fact? did indeed raise the threshold of credibility in many quarters. Who can doubt that the eighteenth-century emergence of the novel registered the adaptation of older literary genres, especially epic and romance, to a new standard of fact-like plausibility? This accommodation to probable characters and plots, however, by no means exhausts the variety of possible relations in the eighteenth century between narrative history and narrative fiction. Rendering the past in eighteenth-century fiction goes far beyond the novel's mimicry of eye-witness authority or political arithmetic. To take these visible elements as the essence of the early novel's treatment of matters historical serves only to eclipse its striking engagement with the methodology of writing history ? in short, with historiography.The law, woven inextricably into the fabric of eighteenth-century English life, exercised a pervasive presence across social ranks. For most persons the law served as their main exposure to government and politics, but its associations stretched far beyond governance and state affairs. Literal and figurative reminders of the law passed every day before the eyes of the English populace in the form of public executions, marriage settlements, bankruptcies, gaming restrictions, debtors' prisons, land enclosures, wills, navy press gangs, deeds of ownership, estate disputes, to list only a few. Those and similar reminders also filled the pages of eighteenth-century fictional narratives. Reworked as plot devices, thematic threads, or instruments of verisimilitude, matters of law infused fictional narratives with the stuff of lived experience and contributed to their persuasiveness ?that all is real.? It is perhaps unremarkable that eighteenth-century novels, given their concern with replicating the real of everyday experience, embraced the law. More noteworthy but less acknowledged is the extent to which the law embraced fiction.Fictions of law arose ?to resolve novel legal questions through arguments of equivalence and creative analogical reasoning?; they signify ?the growing pains of the language of the law.? As English society shed its feudal past and moved steadily to a capitalist mode of operation, its legal system remained rooted in its medieval origins. When new situations occurred that existing laws either did not cover or could not handle adequately, fictions were devised and treated as fact in order to circumvent the inconveniences or inadequacies occasioned by outmoded jurisprudence.All societies possess narrative traditions, myths, and legends about gods and heroes, often in verse. In literate as opposed to oral societies, prose narrative also seems to be an inevitable development, and in Western culture from Greek antiquity onwards there is a rich tradition of prose fictions that are called ?novels? by some literary historians. But literary historians have also insisted that long prose narratives beginning in the early to mid-seventeenth century in Europe are radically distinct from their predecessors, and that they inaugurate a type of fiction peculiar to Western modernity that is by custom referred to as ?the novel,? the form that expresses the special qualities of modern Western experience.world that has been abandoned by God.? The novel reveals ?that meaning can never quite penetrate reality, but that without meaning reality would disintegrate into the nothingness of inessentiality.? For Lukács ancient epic and novel are polar opposites, with the novel dramatizing the distinctive nature of modern experience at its most problematic, especially when set against the epic that gave ?form to a totality of life that is rounded from within? (60). Whereas the epic assumes that the world has form and significance, the novel is about a frustrated seeking for the meaningful coherence that epic takes for granted.This rich, intelligent novel won the xxxx Booker Prize for good reason. Wolf Hall offers a fresh, fascinating perspective on a period one might think had been done to death: the years when Henry VIII of England struggled for a papal dispensation to set aside his queen of many years, Katherine of Aragon, so he could marry the luscious vixen Anne Boleyn and obtain a son in legitimate wedlock. Mantel audaciously chooses Henry's minister Thomas Cromwell as her entry point into the controversy and paints a compelling, sympathetic portrait of him in contrast to a not-so-saintly Thomas More.Few novelists write as well about warfare as Bernard Cornwell. Agincourt, about the battle the army of Henry V fought near that location in xxxx during the Hundred Years' War, strikes just the right balance of fear, courage, pride, the exhilaration of survival, and horror at war's carnage. He also conveys the medieval mind, a mixture of ruthless practicality and proneness to superstition and mystical visions, with unusual skill. I would want to be any closer to the real thing than Cornwell brought me in this novel.Unlike his fellow Confederate generals, Nathan Bedford Forrest was born into poverty, raised himself to a position of wealth through the distasteful occupations of slave trading and land speculation, and had no formal military training. Hthe had courage and intelligence to spare, though, and a more complex relationship with his slaves than stereotypes might suggest. Madison Smartt Bell does him justice in a novel that keeps circling back to the Fort Pillow Massacre, one of the most searing, shocking events of the American Civil War, adding layers of meaning each timeQuakertown is the story of a black girl whose overabundant compassion lands her in trouble when she falls in love with a white boy and also a proud black World War I veteran. It is also the story of a thriving black community betrayed by one of its most respected members, a man who meant well but loved his magnificent garden just a little too much. Though many of the characters behave badly, no one in this graceful, inspiring novel, black or white, can be easily condemned.Many novels have been written about the mistresses of kings, but Gulland's tale stands out because the love story between young Louise de la Vallière and King Louis XIV plays second fiddle to the love story between Louise and a remarkable white horse. Absolute monarchy breeds narcissism, and it's a rare king who did not break the hearts of the women who loved him. Here, the precise, insightful writing and the story of woman and horse add dimension and a note of spiritual triumph to what might otherwise have been a tale of depressing familiarity. Readers can't help but empathize with the eager-to-please, sensually alive sake brewer's daughter in this novel of nineteenth century Japan. Rie lives for her father's goal of making their family brewery the best in Japan ? even though, as a woman, she is forbidden to enter the brewing rooms lest her unauspicious presence sour the brew. But as we follow Rie's story, we gradually become aware what she does to herself is more tragic than what others do to her. More depth and complexity emerge from this novel than its easy-to-follow story would suggest