It’s almost impossible to categorise The Bone Clocks – mystery, thriller, science fiction, fantasy, supernatural – there’s a bit of all of them in there even a hint of vampire (though only a hint, no more). I won’t attempt to make any description of the story as it would either have to be full of spoilers or else give no indication whatsoever of what the book is about; indeed it would be more likely to hoodwink the potential reader into thinking it is something completely different to what it actually is.
I have only read one other Mitchell novel – Cloud Atlas – and to some extent the structure of The Bone Clocks does mirror that book. Bone Clocks consists of several separate but linked stories that, this time, follow a linear timeline though spread over several decades. The first story is set in 1984, the second 1991, the third the 2004, the fourth 2015 to 2020, the fifth 2025 and the sixth 2043. The stories are much more closely linked than in Cloud Atlas with a single plot and set of characters spanning all six. However the point of view and style change markedly in each, once again providing Mitchell with a stage to flaunt the extraordinary versatility of his writing. Each section evokes the era in which it is set (though am I the only one who felt some aspects of the first drifted into an earlier ‘70s feel) and changes flavour according to the social and educational status of the central character. They also poke sometimes scathing satire at beliefs, politics and people from each of those periods. Mitchell seems to have particular fun with the fourth part which can itself be split into six distinct sections covering the professional life of its central character, an author, and during which he passes this comment “What surer sign is there that the creative aquifers are dry than a writer creating a writer-character?” Hmm, is this rather too obvious self-deprecation?
Each part of the book moves along briskly enough and yet the earliest parts only drip feed the overarching plot making that plot’s early progress positively glacial which may be an issue for some readers. There is also a significant imbalance between the parts; the fourth part, the author’s story, though an enjoyable if rather dark read in its own right, contributes almost nothing to the greater story leaving me wondering if this was really pure self-indulgence on Mitchell’s part. He clearly had a lot of fun making his digs at this era and at his own profession as well as at the world of publishing, but really the overall story would be pretty much unaffected by its complete omission. The final part also had little to do with the overall story which really ended on page 519 in my edition with the final 93 pages serving little purpose other than to provide a platform for Mitchell to launch a diatribe on humanities poor custodianship of our planet. However true and necessary that diatribe might be, its relevance to this book is at best tenuous.
I am left with something of a dilemma; I loved reading Mitchell’s prose and by the end of the third part I was convinced I was reading my favourite book of the year. I loved everything about it, including the relative rarity of its coy revelations about the bigger picture and even the sometimes odious nature of some of the main characters. And yet I cannot ignore how the plot lost its way in the author’s story and the final ecological sermon. This alone pulls it down to the four star rating I’m giving it.
4/5 stars
I have only read one other Mitchell novel – Cloud Atlas – and to some extent the structure of The Bone Clocks does mirror that book. Bone Clocks consists of several separate but linked stories that, this time, follow a linear timeline though spread over several decades. The first story is set in 1984, the second 1991, the third the 2004, the fourth 2015 to 2020, the fifth 2025 and the sixth 2043. The stories are much more closely linked than in Cloud Atlas with a single plot and set of characters spanning all six. However the point of view and style change markedly in each, once again providing Mitchell with a stage to flaunt the extraordinary versatility of his writing. Each section evokes the era in which it is set (though am I the only one who felt some aspects of the first drifted into an earlier ‘70s feel) and changes flavour according to the social and educational status of the central character. They also poke sometimes scathing satire at beliefs, politics and people from each of those periods. Mitchell seems to have particular fun with the fourth part which can itself be split into six distinct sections covering the professional life of its central character, an author, and during which he passes this comment “What surer sign is there that the creative aquifers are dry than a writer creating a writer-character?” Hmm, is this rather too obvious self-deprecation?
Each part of the book moves along briskly enough and yet the earliest parts only drip feed the overarching plot making that plot’s early progress positively glacial which may be an issue for some readers. There is also a significant imbalance between the parts; the fourth part, the author’s story, though an enjoyable if rather dark read in its own right, contributes almost nothing to the greater story leaving me wondering if this was really pure self-indulgence on Mitchell’s part. He clearly had a lot of fun making his digs at this era and at his own profession as well as at the world of publishing, but really the overall story would be pretty much unaffected by its complete omission. The final part also had little to do with the overall story which really ended on page 519 in my edition with the final 93 pages serving little purpose other than to provide a platform for Mitchell to launch a diatribe on humanities poor custodianship of our planet. However true and necessary that diatribe might be, its relevance to this book is at best tenuous.
I am left with something of a dilemma; I loved reading Mitchell’s prose and by the end of the third part I was convinced I was reading my favourite book of the year. I loved everything about it, including the relative rarity of its coy revelations about the bigger picture and even the sometimes odious nature of some of the main characters. And yet I cannot ignore how the plot lost its way in the author’s story and the final ecological sermon. This alone pulls it down to the four star rating I’m giving it.
4/5 stars
