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Mitchell is a genre-bending, time-leaping, world-traveling, puzzle-making, literary magician, and The Bone Clocks is one of his best books.”—Esquire “Mitchell is a superb storyteller. It is closer to say that he is a pangaeic writer, a supercontinental writer.”—New York “With The Bone Clocks [Mitchell] has brought off his most sinewy, fine and full book to date, a Möbius strip–tripping great novel that will reward bleary-eyed rereading until he writes his next one.”—Financial Times“Dazzling . But it’s very much the story of one woman: Holly Sykes. There’s something for everyone, traditionalist or postmodernist, realist or fantasist.”—The New Yorker“Relentlessly brilliant . Le Guin, The Guardian“You could call Mitchell a global writer, I suppose, but that does not quite capture what he is doing. Mitchell’s heavy arsenal of talents is showcased in these pages: his symphonic imagination; his ventriloquist’s ability to channel the voices of myriad characters from different time zones and cultures; his intuitive understanding of children and knack for capturing their solemnity and humor; and his ear for language—its rhythms, sounds and inflections.”—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times “As you might expect from a David Mitchell novel, [The Bone Clocks is] big, ambitious, and pretty. This unsolved mystery will echo through every decade of Holly’s life, affecting all the people Holly loves—even the ones who are not yet born. He lives in Ireland with his wife and two children. Men hate it when women act jealous, so I pretend not to be. Down in the kitchen, the atmosphere’s like Antarctica. ”“Okay, okay, so I was a bit late, sorry.”“Two hours isn’t ‘a bit late.’ Where were you? At ten o’clock I phoned Stella’s mam to find out where the hell you were, and guess what? A Cambridge scholarship boy grooming himself for wealth and influence, a conflicted father who feels alive only while reporting on the war in Iraq, a middle-aged writer mourning his exile from the bestseller list—all have a part to play in this surreal, invisible war on the margins of our world. offers up a rich selection of domestic realism, gothic fantasy and apocalyptic speculation.”—The Washington Post “[A] time-traveling, culture-crossing, genre-bending marvel of a novel.”—O: The Oprah Magazine “Great fun . June 30I fling open my bedroom curtains, and there’s the thirsty sky and the wide river full of ships and boats and stuff, but I’m already thinking of Vinny’s chocolaty eyes, shampoo down Vinny’s back, beads of sweat on Vinny’s shoulders, and Vinny’s sly laugh, and by now my heart’s going mental and, God, I wish I was waking up at Vinny’s place in Peacock Street and not in my own stupid bedroom. My best friend Stella’s gone to London to hunt for secondhand clothes at Camden Market. “Morning,” I say, but only Jacko looks up from the window-seat where he’s drawing. [Grade:] A”—Entertainment Weekly“Transportingly great . [The Bone Clocks] perfectly illustrates the idea that we’re all the heroes of our own lives as well as single cogs in a much larger and more beautiful mechanism. He is, at his best, a superior writer to Jonathan Franzen, a better storyteller than Michael Chabon, more wickedly clever than Jennifer Egan, and as gifted as Alice Munro.
You ought to be handling supergrasses for MI5.”Mam gives me the Kath Sykes Filthy Glare. He could go to prison.”“I’ll be sixteen in September, and I reckon the Kent police have bigger fish to fry. The summer holidays’ll be here before the truancy officer can fart, and I’m sixteen in September, and then it’s stuff you, Windmill Hill Comprehensive. But not far, don’t worry.”“I’ve made you a souvenir, to remember me by.” Jacko hands me a circle of cardboard—a flattened Dairylea cheese box with a maze drawn on. “Mister, you’re acting all weird.”“Promise me you’ll memorize the path through it, so if you ever needed to, you could navigate it in the darkness. You’ll understand when you’re older, and—”“You’re moving in with your boyfriend.”By now I shouldn’t be surprised. Crooked Lane veers up from the river, and from there I turn up Queen Street, where I’m nearly mown down by Julie Walcott pushing her pram. No one, clearly, has ever told [David] Mitchell that the novel is dead. I pour some milk over my Weetabix and take it to the table. “Brendan was fifteen when he was going out with Mandy Fry, and if you think they were just holding hands on the swings, they weren’t. car salesman again over my dead body.”“Actually, Mam, I’ll bloody see who I bloody well want! “I’m taking you to school and fetching you back in the van. The girl in the mirror’s a woman, with her cropped black hair, her Quadrophenia T-shirt, her black jeans. “You’re moving in with Vinny today.” I start listing the reasons why I can’t, and stop. The one Jacko’s drawn’s actually dead simple by his standards, made of eight or nine circles inside each other. “It’s diabolical.”“It doesn’t look all that bad to me.”“ ‘Diabolical’ means ‘satanic,’ sis.”“Why’s your maze so satanic, then? If it touches you, you cease to exist, so one wrong turn down a dead end, that’s the end of you. Look, I’ve got a few things to—”Jacko holds my wrist. Christ only knows how he’ll survive in Gravesend if he’s gay. “Okay, I promise to learn your maze off by heart.” Then Jacko hugs me, which is weird ’cause Jacko’s not a huggy kid. ”But Jacko just puts the cardboard lid with his maze on deep into my duffel bag, gives me one last look, and disappears.•••Mam appears with a basket of bar rugs on the first-floor landing, as if she wasn’t lying in wait. [Mitchell] channels his narrators with vivid expertise.”—San Francisco Chronicle “Mitchell is one of the most electric writers alive.
In his latest novel, The Bone Clocks, Mitchell has spun his most far-flung tale yet.
But Holly is no typical teenage runaway: A sensitive child once contacted by voices she knew only as “the radio people,” Holly is a lightning rod for psychic phenomena. Talking Heads’ Fear of Music is on my record player, so I lower the stylus. ”“Upstream or downstream, was it, this little walk? ” The kitchen sort of swirls, and through the window, on the Essex shore of the river, a tiny stick-man’s lifting his bike off the ferry. Let me jog your memory: ten o’clock last night, closing the blinds, front window, wearing a T-shirt and not a lot else.”Yes, I did go downstairs to get Vinny a lager. And—and—I’ll call his employer and let them know that he’s seducing underage schoolgirls.”Big fat seconds ooze by while all of this sinks in. I leave the room without a word, as if I’ve just won an argument.