Richard Smith

“Historical fiction at its best“

“As in his award-winning Not a Soul but Us, each page of Richard Smith’s new novel, Beyond Where Words Can Go, is a perfectly chiseled 14-line sonnet.  In 200 sonnets (200 pages), every one of them free of contrivance, Smith’s narrator, a foundling raised in an abbey in southwest England, takes us on a journey from 1500 through the reign of five English monarchs and the turbulence of the Reformation.  Through the lens of life in an abbey—the org chart, the rules, the food, the daily prayers, the music—Smith creates a world peopled by characters we come to cherish. Historical fiction at its best, surreptitiously a mystery, and so well written that it often refutes its title, Smith’s new novel is most importantly a love story that helps us see that holiness and physical desire are not at odds but can be made of the same stuff.”

—Ralph Alan Cohen, Founding Executive Director of the American Shakespeare Center and author of ShakesFear and How to Cure It.

“Both opera and symphony”

The word “sonnet,” from the Italian, “sonetto,” means a little sound or song. When there are two hundred sonnets in sequence such as those found in Richard Smith’s BeyondWhere Words Can Go, the result is both opera and symphony. Music indeed plays a large role in this bildungsroman of love and joy, of secrets, of brotherhood, of survival and faith, told in the voice of Simon, a 16^th century monk living during the turbulent, violent time of Henry VIII and the English Reformation. Simon’s description of his beloved’s singing is as lush as an aria: “…If it had shape, your voice would make / a perfect sphere. If texture: soft, a hand / whose pressure reassures. If feeling: ache, / and wish. If color: blue, the deepening blue / when twilight’s almost over, blue that would / be black if black could shimmer.” Richard Smith proves himself to be maestro, master craftsman, and one of our best storytellers in this gorgeous novel-in-verse that at its core explores the power of love—platonic, familial, forbidden, Divine—especially when one’s home and world are under siege.

 —Meg Kearney, author of Cardiac Thrill

“Vivid and indelible”

“Beyond Where Words Can Go is so many things at once: a collection of finely wrought narrative sonnets; a deeply felt (and highly unusual) love story spanning decades; a meticulously researched account of 16th-century English ecclesiastical history and practice—all in the space of 2800 lines! With psychological precision, subtle humor, and unfailing empathy, Smith brings to life not just a few central figures, but an entire monastery full of vivid and indelible characters. He has created an utterly original work of literature, as generous as it is sui generis.”

—Gary Krist, author of Trespassers at the Golden Gate and The Mirage Factory

“Brilliant and deeply moving”

“This intimate epic composed in sequential sonnets is the most brilliant and deeply moving story I’ve read in decades. That a classic poetic form raised to such heights by Shakespeare and Donne could shape a tale told with such fluidity is a miracle worthy of its monastic setting: all gold, no dross. Rich in history, both sacred and profane, it sparkles with wit, romance, spiritual insights, soaring imagery, and sudden erotic flashes–all in glowing lyrical passages through time and souls.”

—Charles Scribner III, author of Artists & Authors: A Life in Good Company

Unless you belonged to a religious minority, the Christianity that prevailed in late medieval Europe might offer badly needed comfort. Life was brutal. Plague had wiped out up to half the population in the mid-14th century. Infant mortality was high. Accident and illness kept most people from reaching old age. Bad weather could mean crop failure and starvation.

But such uncertainty was limited to the earthly, temporal world. In the spiritual realm, God was in charge, the Pope was His spokesman, and the Roman Church offered beliefs and rituals guaranteed to (eventually) provide a blissful eternity in heaven. You might not understand how all this worked, but God’s representatives on earth did, from the Pope on down to your parish priest. There were regular experiences of faith, both individually and communally, that for many carried enormous significance and generated profound comfort and joy.

Consider these words by the anonymous 14th-century author of The Cloud of Unknowing:“God will sometimes work in your spirit all by Himself….Then perhaps he may touch you with a ray of His divine light which will pierce the cloud of unknowing between you and Him. He will let you glimpse something of the ineffable secrets of His divine wisdom and your affection will seem on fire with His love. I am at a loss to say more, for the experience is beyond words.”

So although these centuries were plenty grim, daily life was also shot through with light and color and beauty. Beauty in cathedrals, altarpieces, and stained-glass windows, in music such as that written by Hildegarde of Bingen and Perotin, and in books written and illustrated by hand. Look at this page from the Rutland Psalter, made in England around 1260. The text is painstakingly elegant, the illustration brightly colored. That’s the Biblical King David playing the organ. Look at the guy to David’s right, who’s working the bellows with his bare feet. Note that you can see his underpants.

Get used to it. The margins of the Rutland Psalter feature all sorts of illustrations. Underpants are a big theme. (Was there an early version of strip poker, played with chess: Every time your opponent took one of your men, you had to remove an article of clothing?) There are scenes of fighting reminiscent of The Three Stooges or Bevis and Butthead.  Fanciful creatures. Butts—lots of butts.

Along with all the beauty, then, we find playfulness and, well, smut. These pictures were drawn in the margin of a divinely inspired text—the Psalms. Maybe these juxtapositions tell us something about the mindsets of these people: All of life happens in one book, one world. So what’s sacred and what’s silly—well, sometimes they might blur.

Historians typically mark the transition from the medieval age to the modern age around the year 1500. Many pivotal events cluster here: Gutenberg’s invention of a printing press with movable type (c. 1440); Greek scholars carrying classical texts into Italy after the fall of Constantinople (1453); Columbus’ arrival in the Americas (1492); Luther’s 95-Theses broadside against the Catholic Church (1517); Copernicus’ publication of his theory that all planets, including Earth, revolve around the sun (1543).

In England, a key moment came in 1534 with the passage of the Supremacy Act, stipulating that the head of the Church of England was not the Pope but Henry VIII. This declaration was motivated by considerations as political as religious. Since 1399, when Richard II was deposed by Henry Bolingbroke, who then reigned as Henry IV, the English king’s right to his crown kept being contested, with various cousins competing for it. The War of the Roses broke out in 1455 and was resolved only 30 years later, when Henry Tudor defeated Richard III and took the throne as Henry VII.

The Tudors were eager to prevent any recurrence of this chaos. But Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, bore only one child who survived—a girl named Mary—and succession to a female was not a sure bet. Henry had sought annulment of his marriage to Catherine, hoping another wife might produce a male heir, but the Pope refused. So Henry split from Rome, and the Archbishop of Canterbury granted his divorce from Catherine.

Along with his political concerns, Henry had financial ones. He liked to spend—on wars, pageantry, houses—and he was deeply in debt. At this time, religious houses owned a third of the land in England. He sent out commissioners to investigate the finances and conduct of all the monasteries. Not surprisingly, the commissioners claimed to find a lot of corruption, which helped justify a huge grab. Henry appropriated the smaller monasteries by legislative fiat and used threat and intimidation to pressure the larger ones into simply surrendering their lands and wealth to the crown. By 1540, all monasteries in England had been dissolved and their buildings made uninhabitable. Roofs were ripped off and windows knocked out, leaving what Shakespeare called “bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

Who were these monks (and nuns) whom Henry VIII dispossessed? Well, it depends on who you ask. The King’s commissioners, overseen by his advisor Thomas Cromwell, painted an unflattering picture, depicting many of the monks as overfed, impious, venal, and sexually lax (particularly prone to the sin of “voluntary pollution”—i.e., masturbation). Over the centuries, some historians took these accounts at face value and characterized English monastic life as so lax and corrupt that its demise was inevitable.

But recent research has yielded a more nuanced view, citing evidence that into the 1530s some monasteries were inducting large numbers of novices, renovating their physical structures, and actively serving the poor and sick in their communities. It appears, then, that while certain monasteries may have been underinhabited and undisciplined, others were thriving and devout.

So in writing Beyond Where Words Can Go, I’ve assumed that any individual monastery would have its own distinct character, and I’ve chosen to depict one that is relatively small, modest, and devoted to its mission. I’ve also assumed that individual monks  were as varied as any group of humans, with disparate levels of education, religious devotion, and adherence to monastic discipline. Of more intimate details—for instance, whom did they love, and how?—there is of course little to no historical record, as putting such feelings and actions into writing could be fatal. So I’ve had to rely on imagination—but have tried to keep it from rambling too far beyond what we know about this world and those who dwelt within it.

Copyright 2026 Richard Smith