If you liked Cloud Atlas, pick up ghostwritten. And give it until page 38.
Shades of Murakami and Borges (both of whom briefly grace the pages) and Hornby (who doesn’t), a warm up for the pyrotechnic doppleganger genre switching of CA. But mostly its David Mitchell all over again (or really for the first time if you still believe in linear time, a clear sign of having read too little Mitchell). Not as archly triumphant as CA and with one or two sour notes (I’d recommend fast forwarding through “Petersburg” skipping any pages without Jermone), but still brilliant. And something of a sequel/prequel to Cloud Atlas, though it would puncture my favorite reading of CA (that Cavendish is the only “real” person, the rest fiction) if I considered Mitchell a reliable narrator, which I don’t.
Just 50 pages left to go, but I might have to circle around again to “Okinawa” for a wrap. (especially as I feel “Night Train” might be a weak ending, however that is more then balanced by the excellent “Clear Island” which I imagine has nearly universal appeal, but felt decidedly Bujoldian to me)
Perhaps the most frustrating piece of Mitchell is the plotting is so good you don’t have time to stop and really get down the literary pearls strewn so carelessly around.
Now is there anywhere in JP to pick up a copy of number9dream or do I need to head over to the Brookline Booksmith I wonder?