Genre Fiction
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Matrix: A Novel
AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
WINNER OF THE 2022 JOYCE CAROL OATES PRIZE
FINALIST FOR THE 2021 NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION
One of Barack Obama's Favorite Books of 2021
Named a Best Book of the Year by The New York Times, The Washington Post, TIME, NPR, The Financial Times, Good Housekeeping, Esquire, Vulture, Marie Claire, Vox, The Los Angeles Times, USA Today and more!
"A relentless exhibition of Groff's freakish talent. In just over 250 pages, she gives us a character study to rival Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell ." – USA Today
"An electric reimagining . . . feminist, sensual . . . unforgettable." – O, The Oprah Magazine
"Thrilling and heartbreaking." –Time Magazine
"[A] page-by-page pleasure as we soar with her." –New York Times
One of our best American writers, Lauren Groff returns with her exhilarating first new novel since the groundbreaking Fates and Furies.
Cast out of the royal court by Eleanor of Aquitaine, deemed too coarse and rough-hewn for marriage or courtly life, seventeen-year-old Marie de France is sent to England to be the new prioress of an impoverished abbey, its nuns on the brink of starvation and beset by disease.
At first taken aback by the severity of her new life, Marie finds focus and love in collective life with her singular and mercurial sisters. In this crucible, Marie steadily supplants her desire for family, for her homeland, for the passions of her youth with something new to her: devotion to her sisters, and a conviction in her own divine visions. Marie, born the last in a long line of women warriors and crusaders, is determined to chart a bold new course for the women she now leads and protects. But in a world that is shifting and corroding in frightening ways, one that can never reconcile itself with her existence, will the sheer force of Marie's vision be bulwark enough?
Equally alive to the sacred and the profane, Matrix gathers currents of violence, sensuality, and religious ecstasy in a mesmerizing portrait of consuming passion, aberrant faith, and a woman that history moves both through and around. Lauren Groff's new novel, her first since Fates and Furies, is a defiant and timely exploration of the raw power of female creativity in a corrupted world.
WINNER OF THE 2022 JOYCE CAROL OATES PRIZE
FINALIST FOR THE 2021 NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION
One of Barack Obama's Favorite Books of 2021
Named a Best Book of the Year by The New York Times, The Washington Post, TIME, NPR, The Financial Times, Good Housekeeping, Esquire, Vulture, Marie Claire, Vox, The Los Angeles Times, USA Today and more!
"A relentless exhibition of Groff's freakish talent. In just over 250 pages, she gives us a character study to rival Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell ." – USA Today
"An electric reimagining . . . feminist, sensual . . . unforgettable." – O, The Oprah Magazine
"Thrilling and heartbreaking." –Time Magazine
"[A] page-by-page pleasure as we soar with her." –New York Times
One of our best American writers, Lauren Groff returns with her exhilarating first new novel since the groundbreaking Fates and Furies.
Cast out of the royal court by Eleanor of Aquitaine, deemed too coarse and rough-hewn for marriage or courtly life, seventeen-year-old Marie de France is sent to England to be the new prioress of an impoverished abbey, its nuns on the brink of starvation and beset by disease.
At first taken aback by the severity of her new life, Marie finds focus and love in collective life with her singular and mercurial sisters. In this crucible, Marie steadily supplants her desire for family, for her homeland, for the passions of her youth with something new to her: devotion to her sisters, and a conviction in her own divine visions. Marie, born the last in a long line of women warriors and crusaders, is determined to chart a bold new course for the women she now leads and protects. But in a world that is shifting and corroding in frightening ways, one that can never reconcile itself with her existence, will the sheer force of Marie's vision be bulwark enough?
Equally alive to the sacred and the profane, Matrix gathers currents of violence, sensuality, and religious ecstasy in a mesmerizing portrait of consuming passion, aberrant faith, and a woman that history moves both through and around. Lauren Groff's new novel, her first since Fates and Furies, is a defiant and timely exploration of the raw power of female creativity in a corrupted world.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Matrix:
"A radiant novel about the 12th-century poet and mystic Marie de France. . . Groff richly imagines Marie's decades of exile in a royal convent, which she eventually leads. A charged novel about female ambition." - Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air
"Just when it seems there are nothing but chronicles of decline and ruin comes Lauren Groff's Matrix, about a self-sufficient abbey of 12th-century nuns-a shining, all-female utopian community… it is finally its spirit of celebration that gives this novel its many moments of beauty." -Wall Street Journal
"[T]hrilling and heartbreaking. Groff. . . crafts an electric work of historical fiction." -TIME
"[A] page-by-page pleasure as we soar with her. "- New York Times Book Review
"Far more than a treat for history buffs. . . . [Groff] writes a creative, intelligent work that will last." – Boston Globe
"Incandescent. . . a radiant work of imagination and accomplishment." -Esquire
"In Lauren Groff's hands, the tale of a medieval nunnery is must-read fiction." -The Washington Post
"Stunning . . .grand, mythic . . .feels both ancient and urgent, as holy as it is deeply human."-Entertainment Weekly
"An electric reimagining . . . feminist, sensual . . . unforgettable." – O, The Oprah Magazine
"An inspiring novel that truly demonstrates the power women wield, regardless of the era. It has sisterhood, love, war, sex …[Q]uite impossible to put down." - NPR
"A relentless exhibition of Groff's freakish talent. In just over 250 pages, she gives us a character study to rival Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell or Robert Caro's Robert Moses."–
"A radiant novel about the 12th-century poet and mystic Marie de France. . . Groff richly imagines Marie's decades of exile in a royal convent, which she eventually leads. A charged novel about female ambition." - Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air
"Just when it seems there are nothing but chronicles of decline and ruin comes Lauren Groff's Matrix, about a self-sufficient abbey of 12th-century nuns-a shining, all-female utopian community… it is finally its spirit of celebration that gives this novel its many moments of beauty." -Wall Street Journal
"[T]hrilling and heartbreaking. Groff. . . crafts an electric work of historical fiction." -TIME
"[A] page-by-page pleasure as we soar with her. "- New York Times Book Review
"Far more than a treat for history buffs. . . . [Groff] writes a creative, intelligent work that will last." – Boston Globe
"Incandescent. . . a radiant work of imagination and accomplishment." -Esquire
"In Lauren Groff's hands, the tale of a medieval nunnery is must-read fiction." -The Washington Post
"Stunning . . .grand, mythic . . .feels both ancient and urgent, as holy as it is deeply human."-Entertainment Weekly
"An electric reimagining . . . feminist, sensual . . . unforgettable." – O, The Oprah Magazine
"An inspiring novel that truly demonstrates the power women wield, regardless of the era. It has sisterhood, love, war, sex …[Q]uite impossible to put down." - NPR
"A relentless exhibition of Groff's freakish talent. In just over 250 pages, she gives us a character study to rival Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell or Robert Caro's Robert Moses."–
Readers Top Reviews
A. BarlowDiane Ugera
I loved the idea of the book and the characters were interesting, the plot fascinating and the psychology was well-done and gripping. My objection is the actual prose. You know how literary writers, especially US ones, read out their work in a monotone? You can actually hear this when you read. She does that thing where she decides not to use commas correctly. Instead, she runs sentences on and on in a rather affected way. No speech marks, of course, because I suppose speech marks mean the book is for normal people who enjoy reading, or something. It's self-absorbed and self-conscious pretentiousness, unfortunately. Also - glowworms in England??? They are pretty uncommon and certainly would not be featuring in the way she writes one scene. I really wanted to like this book more, but the manner of prose put me off.
2No
I read the book earlier this year and hated it! (I was irritated by the historical liberties taken & the idea that Marie, described as a large women with a manly voice, was lesbian. Really? How cliche is that?) After rereading it and learning about the historical characters through other sources (online and introductions to the Lais of Marie de France, etc.), I now have a profound appreciation for this work. I have spent the last month doing an independent study so I could understand what was really going on in Matrix and who is who-really. This historical period is amazing and the characters, especially, Eleanor of Aquitaine, are true forces of nature. Matrix is dense in details and there are so many levels or layers in this novel, but these are just not very apparent for the lay reader, like a maze versus a labyrinth. Understanding that this is a work of fiction, I think it would be helpful to include the following in future editions: a glossary; a medieval map of England, France & the Angevin Empire; a timeline of significant historical events; a family tree showing how Marie is related (if at all) to Eleanor, Matilda and Blanche (the grand-daughter); and, samples of Marie's work, a lai or the prologue to her fables where she introduces herself as "Je suis Marie; je suis de France." And maybe a few words from the author about how she constructed her novel, the intense research she completed & how Marie de France's works are reflected in the plot. In some ways Matrix is a masterpiece; just wish I didn't have to work so hard at being able to say that...which is why I gave it 4 stars vs 5.
Piggy
Interesting but way too long. Made me want to run as fast as I could. Felt like a prison: the abbey, the island, Europe, the world.
M.M. A. Ney
Lauren Groff has become a fvorite author and Matrix confirms that. She skillfully telss the story of Marie de France, who as a young teenis banished to a poor and rotting abbey in England, because of her size and looks...seen as incapable of making a suitale match. Once there and over her lifetime Marie takes the abbey from untter ruin to a wealthy and powerful institution. Along the way, Mrie has an unusual and interesting cadre of nuns to support her or undermine her. The author has a done an incredible amount of research to present a credible setting and cast of characters. Her presentation of those are enhanced by her excellent writing style. Highly recommended!
michal
Sometimes a story simply grips you and draws you in, unexpectedly. Had I picked a book on an abbey and an abbess in 12th century England? Perhaps not. And yet, here was a whole world of strange customs and old ways of living which are as foreign as can be - but humane and tender and filled with pain and love and misunderstandings. The part of the book that is focused on deep religiosity was hard for me to digest and connect with, but the tale was so beautifully constructed that I did not put the book down, after all.
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
1.
She rides out of the forest alone. Seventeen years old, in the cold March drizzle, Marie who comes from France.
It is 1158 and the world bears the weariness of late Lent. Soon it will be Easter, which arrives early this year. In the fields, the seeds uncurl in the dark cold soil, ready to punch into the freer air. She sees for the first time the abbey, pale and aloof on a rise in this damp valley, the clouds drawn up from the ocean and wrung against the hills in constant rainfall. Most of the year this place is emerald and sapphire, bursting under dampness, thick with sheep and chaffinches and newts, delicate mushrooms poking from the rich soil, but now in late winter, all is gray and full of shadows.
Her old warhorse glumly plods along and a merlin shivers in its wicker mew on the box mounted behind her.
The wind hushes. The trees cease stirring.
Marie feels that the whole countryside is watching her move through it.
She is tall, a giantess of a maiden, and her elbows and knees stick out, ungainly; the fine rain gathers until it runs in rivulets down her sealskin cloak and darkens her green headcloths to black. Her stark Angevin face holds no beauty, only canniness and passion yet unchecked. It is wet with rain, not tears. She has yet to cry for having been thrown to the dogs.
Two days earlier, Queen Eleanor had appeared in the doorway of Marie's chamber, all bosom and golden hair and sable fur lining the blue robe and jewels dripping from ears and wrists and shining chapelet and perfume strong enough to knock a soul to the ground. Her intention was always to disarm by stunning. Her ladies stood behind her, hiding their smiles. Among these traitors was Marie's own half sister, a bastardess sibling of the crown just like Marie, the sum of errant paternal lusts; but this simpering creature, having understood the uses of popularity in the court, had blanched and run from Marie's attempts to befriend her. She would one day become a princess of the Welsh.
Marie curtsied clumsily, and Eleanor glided into the room, her nostrils twitching.
The queen said that she had news, oh what delightful news, what relief, she had just now received the papal dispensation, the poor horse had exploded its heart it had galloped so fast to bring it here this morning. That, due to her, the queen's, own efforts over these months, this poor illegitimate Marie from nowhere in Le Maine had at last been made prioress of a royal abbey. Wasn't that wonderful. Now at last they knew what to do with this odd half sister to the crown. Now they had a use for Marie at last.
The queen's heavily lined eyes rested upon Marie for a moment, then moved to the high window that overlooked the gardens, where the shutters were thrust open so Marie could stand on her toes and watch people walking outside.
When Marie's mouth could move, she said, thickly, that she was grateful to the queen for the radiance of her attention, but oh no she could not be a nun, she was unworthy, and besides she had no godly vocation whatsoever in any way, at all.
And it was true, the religion she was raised in had always seemed vaguely foolish to her, if rich with mystery and ceremony, for why should babies be born into sin, why should she pray to the invisible forces, why would god be a trinity, why should she, who felt her greatness hot in her blood, be considered lesser because the first woman was molded from a rib and ate a fruit and thus lost lazy Eden? It was senseless. Her faith had twisted very early in her childhood; it would slowly grow ever more bent into its geometry until it was its own angular, majestic thing.
But at seventeen, in this spare chamber at the court in Westminster, she could be no equal to the elegant and story-loving queen, who, though small in body, absorbed all light, all thought from Marie's head, all breath from her lungs.
Eleanor simply looked at Marie and Marie had not felt so small since she'd last seen Le Maine, her six amazon aunts gone to death or marriage or convent, and her mother taking Marie's hand and pressing it to the egg growing between her breasts, smiling hugely but with tears in her eyes, saying oh darling forgive me, I'm dying; and that great strong body so swiftly reduced to skeleton, acrid breath, then no breath at all, and Marie pressing all her vitality down into the ribs, all her prayers, but the heart stayed still. Twelve-year-old Marie's bitter anguish at the high windy...
1.
She rides out of the forest alone. Seventeen years old, in the cold March drizzle, Marie who comes from France.
It is 1158 and the world bears the weariness of late Lent. Soon it will be Easter, which arrives early this year. In the fields, the seeds uncurl in the dark cold soil, ready to punch into the freer air. She sees for the first time the abbey, pale and aloof on a rise in this damp valley, the clouds drawn up from the ocean and wrung against the hills in constant rainfall. Most of the year this place is emerald and sapphire, bursting under dampness, thick with sheep and chaffinches and newts, delicate mushrooms poking from the rich soil, but now in late winter, all is gray and full of shadows.
Her old warhorse glumly plods along and a merlin shivers in its wicker mew on the box mounted behind her.
The wind hushes. The trees cease stirring.
Marie feels that the whole countryside is watching her move through it.
She is tall, a giantess of a maiden, and her elbows and knees stick out, ungainly; the fine rain gathers until it runs in rivulets down her sealskin cloak and darkens her green headcloths to black. Her stark Angevin face holds no beauty, only canniness and passion yet unchecked. It is wet with rain, not tears. She has yet to cry for having been thrown to the dogs.
Two days earlier, Queen Eleanor had appeared in the doorway of Marie's chamber, all bosom and golden hair and sable fur lining the blue robe and jewels dripping from ears and wrists and shining chapelet and perfume strong enough to knock a soul to the ground. Her intention was always to disarm by stunning. Her ladies stood behind her, hiding their smiles. Among these traitors was Marie's own half sister, a bastardess sibling of the crown just like Marie, the sum of errant paternal lusts; but this simpering creature, having understood the uses of popularity in the court, had blanched and run from Marie's attempts to befriend her. She would one day become a princess of the Welsh.
Marie curtsied clumsily, and Eleanor glided into the room, her nostrils twitching.
The queen said that she had news, oh what delightful news, what relief, she had just now received the papal dispensation, the poor horse had exploded its heart it had galloped so fast to bring it here this morning. That, due to her, the queen's, own efforts over these months, this poor illegitimate Marie from nowhere in Le Maine had at last been made prioress of a royal abbey. Wasn't that wonderful. Now at last they knew what to do with this odd half sister to the crown. Now they had a use for Marie at last.
The queen's heavily lined eyes rested upon Marie for a moment, then moved to the high window that overlooked the gardens, where the shutters were thrust open so Marie could stand on her toes and watch people walking outside.
When Marie's mouth could move, she said, thickly, that she was grateful to the queen for the radiance of her attention, but oh no she could not be a nun, she was unworthy, and besides she had no godly vocation whatsoever in any way, at all.
And it was true, the religion she was raised in had always seemed vaguely foolish to her, if rich with mystery and ceremony, for why should babies be born into sin, why should she pray to the invisible forces, why would god be a trinity, why should she, who felt her greatness hot in her blood, be considered lesser because the first woman was molded from a rib and ate a fruit and thus lost lazy Eden? It was senseless. Her faith had twisted very early in her childhood; it would slowly grow ever more bent into its geometry until it was its own angular, majestic thing.
But at seventeen, in this spare chamber at the court in Westminster, she could be no equal to the elegant and story-loving queen, who, though small in body, absorbed all light, all thought from Marie's head, all breath from her lungs.
Eleanor simply looked at Marie and Marie had not felt so small since she'd last seen Le Maine, her six amazon aunts gone to death or marriage or convent, and her mother taking Marie's hand and pressing it to the egg growing between her breasts, smiling hugely but with tears in her eyes, saying oh darling forgive me, I'm dying; and that great strong body so swiftly reduced to skeleton, acrid breath, then no breath at all, and Marie pressing all her vitality down into the ribs, all her prayers, but the heart stayed still. Twelve-year-old Marie's bitter anguish at the high windy...
