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brather

I am most undeniably a hypocrite. After hating If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, this month I read and enjoyed two books clearly influenced by that annoying quagmire of literary pretension. Part of me feels I should reread Calvino and discover a new appreciate for his works, but the part that wins out is the one that instead tries simply point out all the ways Cloud Atlas is a superior work to its literary ancestor. And what I find to be the main difference is while both authors excellently utilize the language of the genres they toy with, Mitchell manages to actually write a page turner. And why bother writing in a genre if you can't bother to make it fun? But this book isn't merely a reclamation of "genre" as "literature" (I'm looking at you McSweeney's [and all your ironic facial hair:]). Mitchell offers a rumination on the role social norms determine our language and our identities. Not a light literary load for six pot boilers, but it never feels heavy.

2020-09-11 12:57