Book Review: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

David Mitchell is a god of words. A brilliant, utterly divine artist that pushes creative boundaries beyond akin to Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Marcel Proust, Mary Shelley and their more modern equivalents (to which I’ll go more into on future posts).

When I first read Cloud Atlas, I waited for someone to jerk me from the blinding Utopian tunnel I suddenly found myself floundering, gasping in the radiance of such wit. It was all consuming. It pivoted my life into a rebirth of everything sublime and whole. I know no other words that gifted me with such beauty, hope, weightiness, and wisdom.

And when the indubitably ingenious Wachowski sisters rendered his words, hefting them further into that great ether, I died and lived yet again it was so fanfuckingtastic.

(oh look, more David Mitchell rebirth puns wink cough wink).

All hail the great collaborations and creative teams as this is one, if not, the best in human history.

I said what I said.

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