But that was the only copy of “Cloud Atlas” to be had at the Munich airport.
So I bought that embarrassing-looking book, and I read it on the plane to Dubai, the plane from Dubai, the plane to Turin, and the plane from Turin. And finished it on the plane back to Moscow.
I do see what the fuss is about. Damn right.
Works like David Mitchell’s are doomed to be lambasted for their sincerity in the age of irony, but they are saved by their profound weirdness and the way in which they engage human irrationality.
Also, Mitchell is not a “writer’s writer.” Thank God.