![]() Somni-451 calls her whole narrative into question, gently pointing out the cracks and plot holes in her story to her interviewer. Hush weren't so artily-fartsily Clever" and calls bollocks on the whole comet-shaped birthmark connection. (I hadn't.) Timothy Cavendish tells us "The First Luisa Rey Mystery" would have been better "if Hilary V. Frobisher latches on to Adam Ewing's diary and criticizes it for being overwrought and perhaps embellished (edited by the son) he also lets on that Henry Goose was poisoning Ewing, in case we hadn't picked up on it. ![]() Not only do these texts find their way into the subsequent (or previous) characters' hands, but the characters can't help but provide commentary on the other chapters, bringing in a sort of meta-criticism. Each of the texts finds its way into the others as Mitchell piles on layers that take us through different time periods and dramas. Where the hell was he headed? This is the moment I became hooked on Cloud Atlas, and a great deal of that pleasure came from the intertextual play between the various parts of its symmetric structure. David Mitchell was suddenly present, and certainly up to something. The moment I turned the page to find poor Adam Ewing cut off in mid-sentence, I grinned. ![]() ![]() It's constantly calling attention to itself as a work of fiction. Emily Withrow: Cloud Atlas isn't the type of book you lose yourself in-at least not entirely, or without interruption. ![]()
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