Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell

(2004, Random House)

Toward the end of this fascinating novel, an English composer writing in 1931 describes his masterpiece as “a ‘sextet for overlapping soloists’…each in its own language of key, scale, and color. In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor; in the second, each interruption is recontinued, in order.” This is, in fact, the structure of the novel itself: each of its six sections is written in a different style, each takes place in a different time, major characters overlap, if only slightly, and as we proceed through the six and back in reverse order the themes gradually reveal
their connections.

We begin in 1848, with an American returning home from Sidney, whose ship has stopped at one of the Society Islands for repairs. Next we hear from the self-engrossed composer, in Belgium between the wars, and then find ourselves reading a detective story set in California in 1975. The lament of a failing publisher in New York around the start of our century is followed by the view of a horrible consumer culture in an Asian fascist empire a century or so from now. Arriving at the center of the book, we find savagery and the tatters of civilization in Hawai’i after “the Fall,” when most humans have perished and most of the earth has become uninhabitable. Then, in reverse order, all of the previous tales get completed.

Holding these diverse sections together is a meditation on power, greed, and violence, how these lead to the destruction of the earth, and how power always defines a person or class of persons as inferior and disposable. It also considers how individuals can rebel against these powers and make a difference, even if only as drops in an ocean. This sounds grim, but actually, the six stories are full of suspense, of touching characters, of stunning action. The detective story, in the mode of Sue
Grafton or Sara Paretsky, becomes a parody of the genre’s fathomless malignity and amazing escapes. The Asian consumerist society, based on the labor of sets of identical cloned slaves (shades of Brave New World and The Time Machine), is an only slightly distorted picture of a world we know too well. The different styles of prose, suited to the different times and narrators, are a delight in themselves.

I had heard good things about this novel since its first publication, but have read it only now. My review has not conveyed how moving and engaging it is, how interesting it is to see connections among its parts emerge, how exciting the plots are. Probably many WWURA members have already read this book, and don’t need my enthusiasm. But if you haven’t read it, I urge you to do so.