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Well written but the cycles of (i) curveball challenge to an prioress/abbess establishing oneself, (ii) solution, (iii) some lesbian sex and (iv) observation on monastic life really bored me after a while, even though this is not a sizeable book
For it is a deep and human truth that most souls upon the earth are not at ease unless they find themselves safe in the hands of a force far greater than themselves.

Matrix in a sense feels like an inverse to Wolf Hall, where we have a well known story but Hilary Mantel puts the reader at the edge of their seat. While here we have a for me unknown historical inspired story but Lauren Groff doesn't manage to engage me as a reader to be invested in the fate of the main character whose special destiny is very obvious from the onset: Of course Marie did have greatness in her, but greatness was not the same as goodness.

Even stranger maybe, but this book even made me think of Red Rising by Pierce Brown, where we also follow a main character who is basically good in everything. The way that Groff portrays the world of monastic isolation, with lots of sudden illnesses, destitution and death, is very well done, but Marie for me was rather hard to sympathise with. Is she just controlling of her fellow nuns, carving out a kingdom, or is she truly a believer of heavenly inspired visions? I am more inclined to the first explanation than the second, despite She is not built thrive without others being inserted in the text by the author.

Also her love life doesn't help, since there is a veritable plethora of women who Marie fancies during the book, so how special and deep is the cut from Eleanor of Aquitaine?
Finally the things limiting her are, as one observes sharply, in the end just instruments of her elevation, making the conflict never feel very deep: In fact, Cecily says, it was Marie’s unbeauty that was the making of her.

All in all I was just not emotionally engaged and I also found the plotting of the novel rather uneven, with sometimes years passing in a few pages, and still the novel felt long and plodding for me, something in a way indicated by the last sentence of the book as well: And the works and the hours go on.