Freewheeling Andy
5th July 2006, 22:47
Well, somewhere else on this site I called David Mitchell as the person writing the greatest literature in Britain at the moment. I'm sure that in a few years time my tastes will move on, but I've not read anything from Britain recently that comes close to Cloud Atlas, except, perhaps, his latest novel Black Swan Green.
It's not a book about the Japanese Yakuza, it's not an exotic babushka travelling through time from the 18th to 25th centuries.
It's a departure, to a suppsedly gentler age and place, and a gentler narrative form comes with it.
The only structural excitment comes in the form of 13 self contained story-chapters, each from one of 13 months in the life of a 13 year old boy (well, he's 13 for most of it, although clearly with 13 months he must age at least once).
Rural Worcestershire in 1982 may be the setting, and the stories may be those of an adolescent, but the themes are more universal, and this is one of those aspects that makes it a great book. The stories of being bullies, of desperation for acceptance, of outsiderhood, may seem simple, but they tell tales of the kindness of those you don't expect kindness from; they tell of guilt, of redemption. It's almost a moral novel, in the way it takes up the theme of the importance of being true to yourself, but that would make it sound trite.
It's not trite. It's wonderful. It's got a light, light touch in the writing, is beautifully easy to read, has humour lacing every page, even when darker subjects are around.
Mitchell has, like he apparently always does, moved one or two characters from previous books into this one. Robert Frobisher and Vivian Ayrs return in passing from Cloud Atlas, for example. That adds a little to the fun of the book, but it doesn't need much adding. There's so much going on.
I would struggle to recommend it high enough. Lovely, brilliant, magnificent.
It's not a book about the Japanese Yakuza, it's not an exotic babushka travelling through time from the 18th to 25th centuries.
It's a departure, to a suppsedly gentler age and place, and a gentler narrative form comes with it.
The only structural excitment comes in the form of 13 self contained story-chapters, each from one of 13 months in the life of a 13 year old boy (well, he's 13 for most of it, although clearly with 13 months he must age at least once).
Rural Worcestershire in 1982 may be the setting, and the stories may be those of an adolescent, but the themes are more universal, and this is one of those aspects that makes it a great book. The stories of being bullies, of desperation for acceptance, of outsiderhood, may seem simple, but they tell tales of the kindness of those you don't expect kindness from; they tell of guilt, of redemption. It's almost a moral novel, in the way it takes up the theme of the importance of being true to yourself, but that would make it sound trite.
It's not trite. It's wonderful. It's got a light, light touch in the writing, is beautifully easy to read, has humour lacing every page, even when darker subjects are around.
Mitchell has, like he apparently always does, moved one or two characters from previous books into this one. Robert Frobisher and Vivian Ayrs return in passing from Cloud Atlas, for example. That adds a little to the fun of the book, but it doesn't need much adding. There's so much going on.
I would struggle to recommend it high enough. Lovely, brilliant, magnificent.