The Bone Clocks

by David Mitchell September 11, 2014

This is the time of the year when my native state holds its annual fair. It is always jam packed with too many people, over-the-top food offerings, barnyard animal contests and unwinnable carny events. But my favorite memories will forever be of the Fun House.

I stumbled upon the genius of David Mitchell when I purchased a first edition of Ghostwritten in 1999. I had found my Fun House! Mitchell quickly became my favorite living author. I have savored his every novel since. “The Bone Clocks” continues that admiration.

It hasn’t always been easy sharing this view over the years, especially with my most highbrow literary “friends”. Their comments can be neatly summed up by, “How could you?” I notice that some of those same experts appear to be out again.

Maybe those friends didn’t like Fun Houses when they were kids. They must not have been delighted in being frightened and surprised each time they turned a corner. They probably did not enjoy the variety of the experience, the audacity of it all. Was it the mirrors? The spirits? Maybe, they couldn’t wait to get out.

Thank you, David Mitchell, for the latest installment of your meta-novel. I tore it open as soon as it arrived (thank you, Random House and LibraryThing for the ARC) and I started devouring it immediately. I enjoyed every part (yes, every part). I found Holly simply stunning, Crispin spot-on, Hugo creepy, references to earlier works fun to catch. I got pulled into each story immediately and was only willing to let go because I knew that there was a new “room” around the corner. The settings were so intriguing, the language so precise. Was some of it over-the-top? Sure. Bring it on.

As always, I emerge from a Mitchell Fun House novel with a smile on my face and richer for the experience. And, the clock starts ticking in an impatient wait for the next installment.

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