Yes, David Mitchell is a very smart man… a very smart English man. (That isn’t to say that his genius is any less genius than an American Genius. Just that he is a genius who also happens to be English)
And I, of course, don’t mean this David Mitchell either, though this David Mitchell is also a genius and also from England. I have to tell you, though I have always loved British humor, this particular tongue of silver fascinates me enough to make me binge on hoards of old episodes of “Would I Lie to You?” from the BBC on YouTube. He’s a quick-wit, Brit-wit, smooth-talking bit-wit who can make you laugh even when he’s playing a thick-wit… which he is certainly not.
Anyway, that is the wrong English genius David Mitchell.
I mean the other English genius David Mitchell. The one who wrote Cloud Atlas. Also the one who wrote The Bone Clocks. And, of course, the one whose book Black Swan Green which I just finished reading early this morning.
Yes, I mean this David Mitchell. The absolute genius writer who creates exactly the kind of books that I long to read.
Now, this post should probably be more of a traditional book report than it is. This book I just read is swimmingly, swannishly excellent in a David-Mitchell-is-GENIUS! sort of way. It is about an English boy from Malvern, England undergoing the trials and tribulations of his thirteenth year of life. The boy is a stutterer and secretly a poet. The girl he pines for is the girlfriend of his greatest enemy, the boy who relentlessly bullies and taunts him. One even suspects that this portrait of a Margaret Thatcher-era boyhood written in exquisitely horrible detail might be based on the author’s own boyhood somehow, so vivid is its detailing.
But this is already too cacked-up to be a proper book report just because of the two David-Mitchell-English-genius thing. If you really want that sort of book review, read it elsewhere, or read the danged book yourself. This report is more of a vow of fealty. I must now turn my hoarding disorder sufferer’s exacting zeal on the matter of reading everything this living author writes. I did the same thing to both Michael Crichton and Terry Pratchett because they are geniuses too. But they are both now no longer living and writing new books, at least, not unless there is new meaning to the term ghost writing that I don’t know anything about. So now it is David Mitchell’s turn to be the object of my intense fan-boy love of good writing.
Here are some David Mitchell books that I now must stalk and make my own;
And hopefully, there are many more yet to come.