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May. 12th, 2005 08:19 pmI finished Cloud Atlas this morning, and now I'm faced with the dilemma of how to write about the book without giving too much of it away to those who may read it (and you should read it--it's fascinating). This is more difficult than it usually is because the suspense in Cloud Atlas comes not just from the plot (or, more accurately, plots), but from the structure of the book itself. It's an interesting case, and certainly one of the most unique books I've read in quite a while. I enjoyed the first half better than the second; waiting to see how the structure of the book would play out was more fun than reading it once I knew how the book worked. That's not to say that the second half wasn't enjoyable--Mitchell is not only good at clever gimmicks, he's also perfectly capable of holding my interest by traditional means like character and plot.
I won't be revealing too much if I say that the book is composed of six storylines, each completely distinct from each other yet connected in myriad ways. These connections are both large and thematic, such as the overarching concerns with time and the way humans' record-keeping survives into and influences times beyond those imagined by the record-keeper, and small and incidental, such as the comet-shaped birthmark that appears on several of the characters. I loved finding these connections, and I loved the way the different stories looped and rippled through each other. Some of the stories worked better than others, of course. I loved Robert Frobisher, like I said before, and the second half of his story was at least as good as the first. Sonmi-451's chapters were wonderful--the closest I've come in years to reading hard sci-fi, and a reminder of just how much a talented writer can do with the genre. "Sloosha's Crossing" was probably the story that resonated the most with me, which might say something for the value of continuity in storytelling. Timothy Cavendish and his ghastly ordeal, on the other hand, had moments of humor but failed to appeal to me, and I was only moderately interested in Adam Ewing's chapters. (I should note that it's entirely possible that this fluctuation has more to do with my particular tastes than with any real inconsistency in the quality of the book.) Despite the fact that I liked some of the plots more than others, I loved the way they meshed, the way they moved through time, and the way they seemed to come full circle, the earliest story connecting to the one set farthest into the future. But the thing I loved most, sap that I am, was the way the essence of the book seemed to be a message of hope: the peaceful spirit of the Moriori, encountered by Adam Ewing on his 19th century Polynesian voyage, will survive through our modern society, through the horrible, dystopic future of "Sonmi-451", and be reborn in the post-apocalyptic Valleysmen of "Sloosha's Crossing." Not without struggle, not without suffering through unpleasant times and deadly times, not without massive destruction and slow, difficult rebuilding, yet it will survive.
I won't be revealing too much if I say that the book is composed of six storylines, each completely distinct from each other yet connected in myriad ways. These connections are both large and thematic, such as the overarching concerns with time and the way humans' record-keeping survives into and influences times beyond those imagined by the record-keeper, and small and incidental, such as the comet-shaped birthmark that appears on several of the characters. I loved finding these connections, and I loved the way the different stories looped and rippled through each other. Some of the stories worked better than others, of course. I loved Robert Frobisher, like I said before, and the second half of his story was at least as good as the first. Sonmi-451's chapters were wonderful--the closest I've come in years to reading hard sci-fi, and a reminder of just how much a talented writer can do with the genre. "Sloosha's Crossing" was probably the story that resonated the most with me, which might say something for the value of continuity in storytelling. Timothy Cavendish and his ghastly ordeal, on the other hand, had moments of humor but failed to appeal to me, and I was only moderately interested in Adam Ewing's chapters. (I should note that it's entirely possible that this fluctuation has more to do with my particular tastes than with any real inconsistency in the quality of the book.) Despite the fact that I liked some of the plots more than others, I loved the way they meshed, the way they moved through time, and the way they seemed to come full circle, the earliest story connecting to the one set farthest into the future. But the thing I loved most, sap that I am, was the way the essence of the book seemed to be a message of hope: the peaceful spirit of the Moriori, encountered by Adam Ewing on his 19th century Polynesian voyage, will survive through our modern society, through the horrible, dystopic future of "Sonmi-451", and be reborn in the post-apocalyptic Valleysmen of "Sloosha's Crossing." Not without struggle, not without suffering through unpleasant times and deadly times, not without massive destruction and slow, difficult rebuilding, yet it will survive.
