JE: Tomorrow I will crack the new David Mitchell galley from Random House, which DH will be covering soon. Since I won’t be able to finish The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet in time to join the conversation, I thought I’d warm up the seat by offering a few thoughts on Mitchell, whose narrative audacity and mischievous verbal energy have been an inspiration to me over the course of his first four novels, particularly the big beautiful mess called Cloud Atlas. Cloud Atlas is a mess like Moby Dick is a mess—a performance scarcely able to contain its own force of invention. You can argue about the cohesion. The construction. The mode. Even the conception. But you can’t argue about sheer narrative verve of the work, and you can’t argue about the ambition.
Sometimes you get the feeling that Mitchell is breathlessly chasing his own narrative curiosity, grasping furiously for the evasive connections which invisibly bind his universe. This, incidentally, is exactly how I would characterize the sensation of writing—when I’m doing it well. This appetite for the unknown makes Mitchell one of those writers who is fun to watch from afar, because you’re waiting to see what he’ll try next. And that’s where I’m sitting right now, waiting to see where David Mitchell takes me next. And I’m betting it’s somewhere I’ve never been before.
The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet drops June 29. Look for upcoming coverage from DH.
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