As a Shakespeare enjoyer, I did appreciate many of the ways Bratton transferred the original into this context, in both large and small ways (from a character's role in Hal's life to the interpretation of single lines). I caught many of them and the Henriad isn't even one I'm the most familiar with, which means there are likely more!

My favorite characters in terms of story impact were Richard, Phillipa, and Jeanne, because all of them brought out something different about Hal or about the story and interrupted the status quo. I liked Richard's pervasive influence even years after his death; I liked how Hal was different with Phillipa than he was with anyone else; and I liked how Jeanne was very much not part of whatever was going on with their unspoken family rules that are perceived normal but very much not, but chose to engage with and become part of it anyway, even knowing what she did.

This is not my general genre of choice, but I knew that going in and I did read it for the Shakespeare, on which front it delivered, so I'm not going to discuss the things I didn't enjoy because it really is entirely personal preference and I expected it. I liked how the story wasn't something that was resolved - I liked the way it meandered and it was part of Hal's life and he did change but it wasn't all at once and it wasn't a big moment. It was very human and very much, this is a person in the world.

Thank you Netgalley for this ARC! Henry Henry is well written, crass, dark, humorous, and at times a bit hard to read. If that is your taste in literature you’ll enjoy this read!
I however wish I had been able to really see and feel more of the main character’s developments and improvements.

*I received an ARC via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review. Thanks for the free book!*

TW: drug abuse, body horror, pedophilia, sexual abuse, homophobia, eating disorder, injury/gore, rape,...

"Henry Henry" is supposed to be a Shakespeare retelling but I honestly did not realise that while reading it (shame on me I guess). The novel strongly reminded me of the Patrick Melrose novels: class, privilege, abuse by a father, drugs, uncertainty in young age, family responsibilities are at the core of both narratives.

Many reviews state that "Henry Henry" is supposed to be funny - I mostly did not think so, I found it tragic and disturbing. The novel is overly explicit, all characters are damaged, doomed or damaging and dooming themselves. All the characters were pretty f*cked and quite unlikeable. I found the ending especially disappointing.

Having said that: the book was not boring. It was well written and in parts quite entertaining. Other parts confused me, quite a lot of characters including the main protagonist I very much disliked, but I also pitied him.

What a mess. Life. Everything.

Anyhow. 3 stars

This is a beautifully written book which wonderfully captures Hal’s post-Oxford life and amply demonstrates money and privilege do not buy happiness.

I had a hard time with Henry Henry.

This is presented as a queer reimagining of Shakespeare's Henriad, but to me, the purpose of the Henriad is to witness the character's growth. Here, while there were hints of evolution, I feel like the main character didn’t advance much during the story and it was hard to relate to anyone since everyone was unlikeable.

The writing was dense but cohesive and easily the best part of the novel. It keeps me reading to the end even when the storyline seems to stagnate and meander endlessly during the book's middle section.

This one just wasn’t for me, I’m afraid! I did push through and read the whole thing, but I think Shakespeare and Shakespeare retellings are just not something I enjoy. Not to detract from the writing which I do think has merit

Thank you NetGalley for the ARC.

This was a mediocre at best reinterpretation of the Henriad. As someone who has meticulously studied the Bard and Hal, I was left wanting with this new novel.

Technically speaking, the writing was the best part of the novel. Allen Bratton has a very cohesive way of writing that was able to convey the “stuffiness” of the social starts of Britain, but also portray the everyday lives of ordinary individuals.

The entire purpose of the Henriad is to see the growth of rapscallion Hal to the self-aware Henry V. Although, there were hints of growth, the characterization of Hal did not really advance beyond the drunk, “frat boy”. I found his treatment of Jack Falstaff, to be more demeaning than in the original play.

I found the text messages to be quite distracting and unnecessary that could have been omitted or restructured to actual conversations. I understand the need to implement “modern” correspondence, but it was quite ineffective. It also would have been helpful to include a “cast of characters” at the beginning to identify all of the various Henrys and households for the lay individual.

2015: Hal Lancaster, Duke of Lancaster, fucks around London doing drugs and tarnishing his family name. Six years ago, Richard Lancaster died of complications from AIDS and left his cousin Henry (Hal’s father) the estate and a scapegoat on whom to pin Hal’s gayness. Seventeen years ago, Hal’s mother died while giving birth to her sixth child. HENRY HENRY takes place over a year-ish, during which Hal’s father remarries, Hal dates a family friend (Harry Percy), and, finally, confronting the trauma of his uncle’s death and his own abuse (though “confronting” really isn’t accurate; more like exhuming), begins to figure out how to live.

I haven’t read Shakespeare’s Henriad, on which this is based, or any of his historical plays (though I want to now!), so I can’t speak to the literary references or resonances. But that didn’t stop me from tearing through this gorgeous, brutal, moving book. I have read the Patrick Melrose books, my closest comparison. They both capture the terrifying void that opens up in place of material need or obligations, a void circumscribed by the obligations of class and, in this book, Catholicism. Presided over by Richard’s ghost, Hal and his father hang above the void, arms deadlocked, wishing to throw each other in but unable to lest they fall. They hate themselves and/because they hate each other; like Edward St. Aubyn, Allen Bratton works in a thousand shades of self-loathing. From this father-son struggle, Bratton balances a mobile of relationships: Hal and Harry, his foil, an almost stupidly optimistic and earnest do-gooder; Hal and Jack Falstaff, a washed-up actor who was his only confidante for a long time; Hal and his younger siblings, especially sister Philippa; the extended families and lordly hangers-on. Like other reviewers have commented, you root for Hal because, like the best art about mean people running our mean world, Bratton shows how no earthly condition can save you from suffering and abjection.

Bratton brings out old reliables and executes so well: weddings, hungover brunches, annual dinner parties, a shooting expedition. He lavishes immense care on even the most ordinary scene. I highlighted so many passages, but here’s a modest snippet from a candlelit bath:

After Edward had gone to bed, Hal took a long hot bath and used the Acqua di Parma that had been left out in the guest bathroom. He lit the candles on the windowsill and turned the lights out and soaked in the dark, listening to the wicks popping. His body was a shadow beneath him. The reflections of each flame doubled and tripled as he stirred the water, then resolved back into one as he went still.

A few things I loved or admired that might put other people off:
- Leaping big stretches time, touching on essential scenes, which often repeat because Hal is stuck in a small world
- Hal’s behaviors changing incrementally, not directly “because of” big events, but out of habit, small moments of will, happenstance, laziness
- Everyone being a horrid but hilarious

Thanks NetGalley and Unnamed Press for the e-arc. I’m anticipating this being one of my favorite books of 2024, and I’ll read anything Bratton writes!

I thought this was an extraordinary book. Complex and funny and sharp and dark—I kept thinking about what made it feel so different to me than lots of books that might look similar at a glance, and I think it’s because Hal is so entirely 22? This is a little glimpse of a year of a young adult life, with so much still in progress. I’ll be reading this again, probably several times, and I look forward to reading more from Bratton. The writing is exquisite.

a lot of words and a lot of unlikeable characters. i didn't read this for the retelling aspect so maybe that's why it wasn't all that for me. it was funny though so there’s that.

DNF. Attempting to read this book was difficult… the content is probably good for other readers but as a mood reader, the tone and mood of the book didn’t intrigue me. It’s a very dated perspective on queer literature compared to many modern queer novels. The language is crass and gritty which could appeal to classical book lovers but to me it just didn’t vibe.

When I finished reading Allen Bratton’s Henry Henry, I was overcome with the desire to immediately announce, “I am just going outside and may be some time” and then disappear into the freezing wastelands of the Antarctic in effort to deal with the tumult of emotions the book stirred up. Since I couldn’t actually do that, I just spent the next few days wandering about in a haze, trying to get on with my day and then suddenly remembering Henry Henry and wanting to cry or scream. This is a devastating, haunting novel.

From the moment I started reading the ARC until I finished it, I barely slept. When I wasn’t reading, I kept thinking about it in spite of efforts not to. Now that I finished, there’s part of me that wants to immediately return to the first pages and read it all over again. Another part of me wants to take days or weeks to process everything, that barely stand the thought of a reread so soon after the book shattered me. Yet another part of me wants to wait/can’t wait for when I can sit down with the published hardback and read it again, without the murky ARC formatting. And another, final part of me wants to be years in the future where I can read academic analyses, thinkpieces and discussions about this book. Because seriously. This book.

Henry Henry is a loose queer retelling of Shakespeare’s Henriad plays that transposes the story onto the modern day. By doing so, the story is scaled down from a historical epic where characters rule and inherit kingdoms, depose and murder kings and fight military battles, to the mundane. Having stripped the characters from power and chivalry, Bratton focuses on the family drama, telescoping the action around Hal (Shakespeare’s wild prince, the future Henry V) and his fraught relationship with his father, Henry, and his one-time rival and new boyfriend, Percy (Henry “Hotspur” Percy, that is).

This is not a retelling concerned with extreme fidelity to the text. Bratton plays with the timeline, borrows from history (both medieval and more modern), deals with modern politics and concerns with the British aristocracy, keeps some characters alive, inserts characters who don’t appear in the Henry IV plays, and creates new characters. It is a truly transformative retelling. And, of course, Henry Henry is a queer retelling, giving us a Hal who is very much a gay disaster, a sexually fluid Percy, while many other queer characters.

I can imagine that sort of person who wants retellings to be written with extreme fidelity will not like this book. For me, the transformative aspect makes it all the more interesting. I don’t want a retelling where I know all the plot beats ahead of time and the dialogue feels like it’s been taken from an especially soulless No Fear Shakespeare “translations” of Shakespeare’s rich text. I want to be surprised. There was a particular, intense joy when I found where Bratton had taken Shakespeare’s scenes and dialogue and transformed in such a way that it’s not immediately obvious what his source text is. I want to frame his version of Hal’s “I know you all” soliloquy because it’s stunning in its own right. The book’s editor, Brandon Taylor, said “you will simply die when you see what Bratton does with the famous arrow” but the play extempore had killed me before I reached that scene.

Bratton is an incredible stylist; his prose is exquisite. There were so many lines and paragraphs that I highlighted, that I lingered in and went back to and cried over and wanted to dissect and live in. I particularly liked the gothic weight he gave the London house. Bratton is going on my list of authors I will immediately preorder any future books he writes.

To be honest, Henry Henry feels a little bit like a fever dream for me. To have a queer retelling of my favourite plays, focusing on the characters and relationships that intrigue me the most, for Bratton to take the story where he does and to do such confidence and skill? It’s a dream come true, except I would have never dared dream it. I suppose it helps that I’m not particularly invested in or tied to any one interpretation or production of the Henriad (apart from Hal being a young, hot mess (the hot is negotiable) that is - and Bratton certainly delivers on that front). Bratton’s interpretation is far more audacious and astute that I could have ever imagined on my own. If you’re looking for a “wholesome” queer retelling of the Henriad, though, this isn’t the book for you – Henry Henry is intense, witty, brutal, funny, tragic, beautiful, sexy, and heartbreaking. It also deals with a father’s sexual abuse of his son.

*

There have been a few comparisons made between Henry Henry and Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose Novels. This is true on a number of levels: both are concerned with class, both have a tragicomic tone, both are written by incredibly talented authors, and both deal with drug addiction and a son dealing with the trauma of being sexually abused by his father. This last one, I fear, will be the book’s most controversial aspect.

Being an avid historical fiction reader, I’ve seen enough finger-wagging rants about “defaming the dead” to imagine the same sort of reaction greeting Henry Henry. To which I would say: get a grip. This is obviously not a thesis about the real Henry IV and the real Henry V, it’s a retelling of a Shakespeare play. Bratton is doing what countless other authors have done before: he is using a classic piece of literature as a way to talk about sexual violence (the most famous recent example is probably Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls, but I’m also reminded of Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres).

An extension of this criticism may be to question whether the plays themselves “support” this reading. I would say that they lend themselves well to a narrative about a father’s abuse of his son. A number of recent productions have shown Henry to be violent towards his son (who, after all, could forget Jeremy Irons backhanding Tom Hiddleston?). Looking at the plays, we might also ask: why has Hal alienated himself from his father? Why does he spend all his time drinking and partying? Why does he look to Falstaff and later to the Lord Chief Justice for a replacement father? But why does he always come back to Henry, seemingly wanting his love and approval? Why can Hal’s reformation seem like a trap instead of a triumph? I don’t say this to go “well, obviously, the plays are about Henry abusing Hal” or for someone to jump in with a history lesson (I’ve read the history books, thanks). My point is more that this is literature, this is the inherently adaptable, transformable Shakespeare. The plays do not answer these questions overtly so why can’t an author find different answers that show the plays in a different light?

But my main fear is the discourse about victimhood. I cannot forget the scandal around My Dark Vanessa, where Kate Elizabeth Russell was forced to out herself as a survivor of CSA to be “allowed” to write about the complicated, messy ways abuse victims react to trauma (and even after that, was accused of being too explicit in her depictions of making her victim is too “complicit” in her abuse – a similar kind of outrage has also been directed at memoirs of sexual abuse written by women). Hal’s responses to his abuse are undeniably messy. He makes for a “bad victim”, unable to divorce himself from the fact that he still craves his abuser’s approval and love, refusing to disown or openly accuse his abuser. His heavy drug use, his tendency to lie and be disingenuous have made him an unreliable witness. He is not a kind or good person, in fact he’s rather horrible. He blames himself, he wants to be punished for the abuse, he keeps coming back.

Bratton’s depiction of Hal’s responses to his abuse ring very true and sad. But there is a tendency to want narratives about abuse and trauma to be simple and comforting, as if by promoting this narrative we can fix the problem of victimhood. Victims should know they’re victims and be trying to save themselves (or be waiting for the right person to save them – a more predictable novel would have Percy saving Hal from his father) and they must never, ever have ambiguous feelings towards their abuser. They must never, ever want to go back (if they do back, they are not really characters but passive, empty dolls who never could be saved). Any story about sexual abuse and violence must end with realisation, catharsis and healing, or at least the hope of these things. They – and more importantly, the reader – should be reassured that it’s not their fault, that they have done nothing wrong, and this should be made patently obvious in every scene. They – and more importantly, the reader – should be told that this is not love and the narrative make it patently obvious, in case we might have to think complicated thoughts about abusers and their victims. Yet I wonder how helpful these “rules” are. Abuse does not really allow for, to misquote Mary Gaitskill, “a clear-cut hygienic way” of thinking. Abuse victims will always find some way to blame themselves; abusers often try to ensure it. They can even love their abusers and believe their abusers love them, and they will always doubt the stranger who tells them it isn’t love because what do they know? There may be value in telling these sorts of stories but there is no value in restricting all stories about abuse to these rules. Bratton, wisely, eschews all of these “rules”. Hal doesn’t come to realise that it isn’t his fault, that it wasn’t love, and he can be whole. He doesn’t get realisation, catharsis or healing. He gets to go on, living with this thing that happened to him.

And God, I wish Hal did get catharsis. I wished Hal could have heard Patrick Melrose’s “nobody should do that to anybody else” and taken it to heart. I wished Hal had told someone and that the one person he half-told had actually helped him come to terms with it instead of being a complete twat about it. I wished that Bratton had taken the novel through to the climax of Henry IV, Part Two

This is not the only trauma in the novel. Henry is a controlling, parasitical and abusive father to all of his children, who all are screwed up in various ways. As Hotspur says enumerates at one point: Hal's mother died when he was young, then his gay cousin died from AIDs, then Hal realised he was gay in a conservative and homophobic family, he’s been at boarding school since he was eight – and he’s Catholic, feeling intense shame for having a body in the first place, let alone everything else.

*

I said above that Hal is a horrible person in Henry Henry; that is true for nearly every character in this book. The most likeable figure might well be Falstaff – rather a surprising turn given the recent tendency to make him a more sinister figure. But this doesn’t mean that the characters themselves are wholly unsympathetic. If it’s not already clear, I felt a lot for Hal. Bratton doesn’t shy away from his nastiness but simultaneously allows us to see the vulnerable, hurting person beneath – I couldn’t help but imagine the child Hal, trapped inside him, crying “unloved! unloved! unloved!”

Nor is he the only character that you couldn’t help love even as you were repelled by them. Percy was a very interesting figure – he’s idealised by Hal (even in the earlier sections, where Hal finds him insufferable) and yet I would go so far as to say that out of all the characters bar Henry, Percy harms Hal the most, albeit unintentionally. His earnest, do-gooder personality doesn’t necessarily negate the harm he does. Edward Langley’s (Richard II’s Duke of Aumerle) cameo was heartbreaking, a particular standout in an excellent book. Although dead and only a memory, Bratton’s take on Richard II made me remember what I found so fascinating about him.

Shakespeare did not write about the real Henry V’s female relatives; Bratton evens the playing field by writing back in his mother, Mary Bohun (though, like Richard, dead and only a memory), his stepmother Jeanne (Joan of Navarre) and his sisters, Blanche and Philippa, and by letting his maternal aunt, Eleanor (Richard II’s Duchess of Gloucester), survive. All of five characters are intriguing and I wished we saw more of them – this is probably the only depiction of Eleanor de Bohun I’ve seen outside of Shakespeare’s that doesn’t treat her as completely heinous. Philippa gets a lot of focus (beating Hal’s three brothers who do appear in the plays by a longshot) and, given how little attention has been given to her by Anglo historians, she’s effectively Bratton’s own creation and she’s incredible. I’d love to see more of her.

Some of the female characters in Henry IV go missing, namely Kate Mortimer, Doll Tearsheet and Mistress Quickly – though one could argue that they appear or are referenced, just not as centralised or even named figures, and honestly, I get it. There’s a lot to adapt and include. I was a little surprised that Bratton killed off Hal’s maternal grandmother before the novel started – historically, Joan Fitzalan, Countess of Hereford lived quite late into the reign of Henry V, receiving rather unusual honours and was, by all accounts, a quite formidable lady, though she never appeared in a Shakespeare play.

The characterisation of Hal’s sister Blanche did not necessarily disappoint but produced mixed feelings. Bratton gives her more focus than any other English author, be they novelist or historian, and she’s certainly a character I would have liked to see more of. However, in a novel that deals so much with the trauma caused by child sexual abuse, I couldn’t help but remember that the historical Blanche would be considered today a victim of child sexual abuse. Blanche, at age 10, married Louis or Ludwig, the future Elector Palatine and son of the King of Germans, He was 14 years her senior and got her pregnant most likely before her 14th birthday (for those going, “this was the norm in the Middle Ages”, all recent scholarship suggests it wasn’t). I don’t consider this a failing of Bratton’s. Rather, I blame the frankly careless and disinterested treatment Blanche has received from English historians, who have tended to rely on the work of Victorian-era historians whose deficiencies are well-known and who did get a lot wrong about Blanche and Louis (one claims that Louis was a decade younger than he was, others claim she died giving birth to her son – despite Louis’s letter to Henry explicitly stating she was only six months pregnant at the time), rather than seeking out the work of modern German historians, even those published in English, to ensure their work is up-to-date.

As I said, I don’t consider it a failure on Bratton’s part and I’m not necessarily disappointed. It is of course his prerogative whether or not to include this and he isn’t, as I said above, writing about the historical Lancastrians but an interpretation of Shakespeare’s version. Nor does Henry Henry exclude the possibility that Blanche has been abused, only that Hal (and presumably their siblings) isn’t aware of it. I do wonder what he’d think and feel if he knew, though.

*

Henry Henry is not the first queer retelling of the Henriad, but it is one of only a handful. I am excluding Richard II here, a play implicitly concerned with queerness and whose queerness has been emphasised in a vast array of adaptations and productions. Queer readings of Henry IV have largely been consigned to the theoretical and academic, which have tended to connect Falstaff and the world of the Boar’s Head with queerness and read Hal as a queer figure whose rejection of Falstaff at the climax of Henry IV, Part Two represents him “selling out to heterosexuality”, though there are other readings of the play that focus on his doubling with Hotspur or his relationship with Poins.

There are less theoretical queer readings of Henry IV. The most famous of which is My Own Private Idaho, and recently a fantasy novel featuring a genderswapped cast (Lady Hotspur) was published. There are probably obscure productions that have given us a queer Hal, though the only ones I’ve come across any mention of are Ten Oorlog (a Dutch adaptation of the two tetralogies) and the Sydney Theatre Company’s Wars of the Roses (best known for the photos of Cate Blanchett’s Richard II lolling around in gold confetti, this production reportedly had audience members walk out over Hal giving Falstaff a blowjob). Perhaps their scarcity (and My Own Private Idaho’s cleaving to the narrative of Hal selling out to heterosexuality so hard it has him reject queerness well before he rejects Falstaff) reflects a refusal to accept Henry V – the warrior king, the representation of idealised masculinity, manhood and Englishness and frequently memorialised as one of England’s greatest kings, forever inextricably tied to his Shakespeare counterpart – might potentially be queer. The historical Henry V, however, is perhaps not as straight as his reputation might suggest – despite claims of a sexually promiscuous youth, there is no real evidence of his having sexual relationships with women until his marriage.

Henry Henry may not be the first or only queer retelling of the Henriad, but it is quite possibly the queerest retelling not lost in obscurity, or at least the most explicitly and unapologetically queer. This is a Hal who sucks and fucks and who does not sell out to heterosexuality – at least, not yet.

*

This is a tremendous novel. I could keep talking about it. A morning was spent re-reading the last chapters and sobbing. I want to keep talking about it. I may have to come back to this review when I get the published hardback and read it all over again.

But for now, I must end this review. The red ice-breaker has come into port and I, with my copy of Henry Henry under my arm, must embark. I may be some time.

Henry, Henry is dark and thoroughly entertaining. When I read the blurb for this novel I was immediately interested. A queer reimagining of the Henriad? Absolutely down for that. A petulant, little sissy Prince Hal? Fabulous. This novel hit me with a range of feelings. I was disgusted, amused, depressed, angered! So many emotions are packed into this book and while the story took a much different turn than the one I was anticipating, I found it entirely worthwhile in the end.

Henry, Henry almost gives Saltburn as done by Lana del Rey vibes. I found the novel to be a terrific character study. Our Hal may not be entirely likable, a fact he is well aware of as noble without a cause, but he is an incredibly entertaining (and rarely sober) protagonist. Buried beneath layers of biting wit and snobbery, Bratton infuses the story with ample opportunity for the reader to develop sympathy for an otherwise pitiable Hal as his history and relationships unfold.

The vivid cast of characters and the immediacy of Bratton’s writing entangle the reader within the narrative so effectively that it is difficult to put this book down without feeling invested in the well-being of (some of) our characters (poor little Henry Percy!) This novel navigates dark themes in a complex (sometimes repulsive, sometimes sensitive) manner. At times the writing is loud, clustered and confused, at other times quiet and cutting, much like the characters Bratton paints on the page. With passages that felt like gut punches, but never gratuitous, and with a unique point of view Henry, Henry engaged me in ways that I did not expect.

Dense but superb writing, and a familiar story given a fresh makeover. The Shakespeare telling aspect may go over some heads, I had to do some research there, but it really doesn’t matter - the story also stands on its own. I just enjoyed finding all the nods to the original text. This is fantastic literary writing with characters you can get invested in. Hal’s contradictory nature was fascinating - his public and private personas were explore well, and made me feel for him even more. Unlikable characters are in my wheelhouse but they’re not for everyone - nonetheless here I think people will get behind him. Fantastic debut, highly recommend.

Thank you Netgalley for this arc! This was a beautiful tale maybe one that pulled at some heartstrings.

Oh, who am I kidding, it did.

For fans of “a little life “

Henry Henry is a Shakespeare retelling of Henriad. I haven’t read Henriad since high school and I dont remember too much of it, so this book will not be judged off that.

Henry Henry follows Hal as he deals with all the things he’s addicted to, (drugs, sex, catholic confession, his father, being a disappointment) and becomes the person he actually wants to be.

the writing is really great but reallllly dense. sometimes reading it was like walking through thick mud, and i would have to reread lines. in the end, i was invested in all the characters and would’ve loved for the story to continue farther.

I appreciate being able to have access to this but it’s really hard to get through a book when the formatting is off. It’s really distracting and I just didn’t really mesh with the writing.

When Jeremy O. Harris blurbs a book, you know you are going to be in for something completely different. Can I really say I enjoyed this novel? Ehhhh…this is a very heavy book and our protagonist was sexually abused by a family member so do proceed with caution if you are coming into this thinking it’s going to be a fun romp. I do think Hal is an incredibly dynamic character to be sure and I found the story itself very engaging but it just didn’t hit for me the way I thought it would. The writing is exquisite and I am excited to see what Bratton’s sophomore effort will be. Solid 3 stars.

Ugh, I'm a mess after reading this. I seriously didn't really know too much of what I was getting into. I saw the fabulous cover, skimmed the synopsis... and just dove in. This is supposed to be a queer re-imagining of Shakespeare's Henriad, but because I am not familiar with it, I can't speak to that aspect.

Catholic, gay, and eldest son of a duke, Hal is a 22 year old who is so clearly lost that it broke me. He spends his nights with booze and drugs, his days recovering only to repeat the cycle. Unashamed in his debauchery he holds onto shame for something else. So much so that he seems to feel unworthy of love. Even when it is staring him in the face...

Hal was a very charismatic character, making light of certain situations, he comes undone in private and oh my god, what a realistic portrayal of shame and impulse. I will be thinking of this book for a very long time!

Henry Henry is an oft-times dark debut about a queer noble in the 21st century. Hal lost his mother as a child, and his Lord father Henry becomes overbearing towards his eldest son, but is now getting remarried 15 years after being widowed. To cope with many aspects of his life, Hal turns to vices such as sex, drugs, and overspending his father's wealth.

Hal finds himself spending more time with his from-birth rival Harry as their relationship changes from enemies to lovers, much to the displeasure of their noble fathers. Throughout the novel, Hal finds himself wanting to open up about the dark secrets regarding his father.

The writing feels very consistent to how I imagine Hal would speak, and there's sprinklings of humor without risking it becoming a humorous book. I highly enjoyed this book, there was themes within in that made me want to keep reading and find out what is going to happen next.