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Matthias's Reviews > Cloud Atlas
Cloud Atlas
by
by
1. Counting
I don’t remember exactly when I learnt to count. It feels like one of my earliest memories, and one of my most profound. Things started to make sense right there and then. That mountain of peas on my plate felt a lot less menacing when I could count that there were only 36 of them. My collection of Dinky Toys was all the more impressive when I realized I had a whopping 24 miniature cars to play with. My enjoyment of candies increased when I realised 5 became 4 and 4 become 0 real quick. I enjoyed counting. I would count cars, trees, birds, buildings, pens, clouds, ants, marbles, blades of grass and the freckles on my father’s arm. I counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and beyond. And I counted on a world of possibilities that are as infinite as they are manageable.
2. Drawing
The holidays were over and the grey clouds of September carried the overpowering smell of the school’s soup with them. It’s a smell that was embedded in the classroom’s walls, in my books, in my clothes. A smell that could only be shaken off by a warm summer breeze and rolling around in the grass. Presently I found myself in a school made of concrete, holding down the grass and keeping out the breeze. The first assignment the teacher gave us was to look back on that beautiful summer and draw our best memory. The smell of soup filled my nostrils. Pea soup. It wasn’t always pea soup but it always smelled like pea soup. And the thing with soup is that there’s no telling how many peas were in there. How could I recall anything of summer in this environment of grey walls and brownish green soup? The teacher was hovering over me when I had just started drawing. I had begun like I always began: a smiling sun in the top left corner. “The sun doesn’t have a face.”, the teacher told me flatly. The foundation of every drawing I had made crumbled and so did my childhood. But I had a drawing to finish. A drawing of happier times where the sun was still allowed to smile, a drawing of times that suddenly seemed miles away.
3. Caring
Summers in my childhood street were beautiful. The street was a loop, shaped very much like a “b”, with houses on all sides. Only cars who had to be there would pass by, so the street belonged to us, us being me and a friend who was visiting. We had met each other on holidays in Rhodes, and given that we were the only two Flemish kids there, at an age where our differences didn’t matter as much as the games we could play together, we got along really well. His parents dropped him off for a week every summer since then. Christopher was a lot more adventurous than I was and whenever he came around we explored new areas, climbed trees, built camps and stole apples. One summer we were at a little creek, at the tip of the “b”, and heard the sound of frogs. “Did you ever catch a frog?”, Christopher asked. I hadn’t. I didn’t like little living things. They scared me, as I pictured them jumping into my eye or crawling under my skin. I had seen Christopher catch huge bugs in Rhodes that were resting on trees, insects that terrified me and would haunt many of my nightmares. But I never wanted to show him my weakness in this regard. “I’ll show you how to catch a frog.”, he said. And I told him “ok”, with a heart that felt like the size of a pea.
4. Joking
Language camps were my parents’ favourite thing to send me off to. It was a great way for me to make new friends, learn another language and get out of the house without them needing to worry. The first language camp I went to was on a farm that was called “The Falcon”. The idea was to have the children speak in English to each other all the time, and thus learn new vocabulary as they were playing. So getting out of the house? Check! Learning another language? Check! Making new friends? Kcehc… I had just started wearing glasses and was still pretty insecure about them, with camp being the first time I’d be wearing them in public. I thought things would be fine because I knew a friend who was going as well, so at least I’d have him to hang around with. Sadly, he abandoned me the first day, even before my parents’ car drove out of sight. He had a really cool cap from the Charlotte Hornets, green and purple, with the visor bent into a “U”. I had a cap too. It was white, aside from the rims that were yellowed by months of perspiration, and had the logo of a cheap beer brand. The visor was as flat as an ironing board. Who could blame him for looking for other friends with cooler caps? I was mocked and ridiculed within the first hour of being at camp, even before rooms were appointed. Eventually I got to share my room with an asthmatic kid, who was my only competitor for being the camp’s social outcast. While I sympathised with his condition, his loud snoring at night made it difficult for me to be genuinely warm to him. And after he pulled down my pants in the middle of a football game, with the entire camp (girls included) watching, difficult became impossible.
One of the highlights of the camp was the camp fire. At that time the children were asked to prepare something, like a dance or a sketch, to show in front of the others. Groups were eagerly formed and as the other kids were practicing their singing and their acrobatics, I found myself alone and without ideas. Until I saw an empty bucket with the label of a brand of mayonnaise.
5. Writing
High school was pretty good to me. I had a nice group of friends, my grades were okay, and I didn’t have to exert myself too much in order to obtain them. One teacher tried to change all that. Mr. Vekeman, who gave courses for Dutch, didn’t like me. In fact, he hated me. He had noticed that I was lazy and that I didn’t pay attention. While that was true, the problem was that he took all of this personally. As if my lack of devotion for Dutch somehow brought to light his own failure at being an interesting person.
One day he gave us an assignment: to write an essay on the topic of “responsibility”. He showed an example of a particular type of essay, the one where a fictional story is interspersed with social commentary, both feeding in to each other. It looked pretty cool. Finally an assignment I liked!
I started writing about a guy left home alone, his parents leaving on a holiday. He organised a big party instead of doing his homework. This story ran parallel with some remarks on how responsibility is obtained or bestowed and the ways in which one can wriggle out of them. Of course, the whole thing blew up in that guy’s face, allowing me the conclusion that the vomit of his drunken friends in the pool was what brought home the importance of responsibility. The lesson that it was only when you took your responsibility that the luxury of swimming without finding a stray pea in your course would be yours. I handed in the essay with confidence and discussed it with my friends. They smirked. They told me I hadn’t understood the assignment correctly. We were supposed to write a normal essay, without all the fiction that our teacher deemed ridiculous. He had given us an example in class, not because he liked it, but to show us how it should never be done. An example which I followed. A style that my teacher despised and would find in an essay with my name on it.
6. Reviewing
I’m on Goodreads, present day. I’ve just read Cloud Atlas, a wonderful achievement by a gifted author. A book that is difficult to summarize because of its scope. It’s a tale that spans six different times, places and genres . There are many lines that connect these tales, but the first one worth noting is the brilliance of David Mitchell. It takes daring to write a book like this, and skill. He’s got both. First of all, there’s his mastery of English language. Just consider the following quotes:
”A ringing phone flips Luisa’s dreams over and she lands in a moonlit room."
I wouln't be surprised if David Mitchell has a similarly shaped birthmark as Charles Dickens had.
”The cold sank its fangs into my exposed neck and frisked me for uninsulated patches.”
Not convinced?
” Hot glass office buildings where the blooms of youth harden into aged cacti like my penny-pinching brother.”
Okay, just one more:
” The memory cracked on the hard rim of my heart and the yolk dribbled out.”
This book uses many different styles. Some stories are presented in the form of a letter, others are a journal, still others are an interview. Given that it spans different centuries, language itself is transformed. The chapters set in the 19th century made me grab my dictionary once in a while, while the stories set into the future are an experiment much in the same vain as “A Clockwork Orange” or “Riddley Walker” are. The language that Mitchell foresees for the future is less pleasing to both the ear and the eye than Burgess’ Nadsat. The stories set in the future registered a bit less in my mind for that reason.
Aside from his mastery of language and his propensity of delivering powerful aphorisms, Mitchell can enter the mind of any character one can imagine. He knows the workings of an ageing publisher as well as those of a gifted musical composer, he describes the life of a mass-produced clone as well as that of a 19th century notary traveling on the Pacific.
Six stories are contained in Cloud Atlas. The way they are connected is usually very subtle, though the author sometimes can’t help himself and waves a certain birthmark in your face. The blurb at the back says it’s about power, and true enough, many insights from many different perspectives are given on the nature, pitfalls and omnipresence of power and mankind's thirst for it. But I think that the true essence of this book, for me, can better be summarised with the author’s own words:
"Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds and contrary tides. I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds. "
Aside from this central and ethereal theme, the stories in Cloud Atlas each have their own plot. There’s one about an escape from a retirement home, which is my favourite. It’s got the perfect mix of humour, tension and philosophical musings. The protagonist, Timothy Cavendish, is a bit embittered and looks at the world around him with a very sceptical, but nonetheless thoroughly perceiving eye. His ghastly ordeal is the best thing I’ve read this year and that story alone is worth reading this book. The letters from Zedelghem castle, located in a little Belgian town, were also a highlight with the usage of refined language and a rather direct protagonist.
What cost this book a star is the story about the first Luisa Rey mystery. It’s got a good villain and one good line (the one about dreams flipping over), but other than that it brings the book down. First of all: it’s not a mystery. The story, pulled by its hairs as it is, is riddled with plotholes and clichés. (view spoiler). Was this a conscious choice by the author, employing the superficial, no-attention-to-detail “Hollywood”-style to give yet another flavour to Cloud Atlas? Probably, but that doesn’t mean I should like it.
But the overall experience of Cloud Atlas: Mesmerizing. Inspiring. Amazing. What really makes this book shine is its structure, the prose of an author who swims in English like an otter in a pond, and, of course, the grand idea of trying to make, draw and write an atlas of clouds, and succeeding.
5. Writing
A couple of days had passed and I had almost succeeded in forgetting about that essay. The sword that was dangling above my head had disappeared over the weekend, but come Monday morning that very same sword shot through the stars on a course straight for the top of my head. I could feel its heated presence in the air and was just wishing it would all be over soon when the teacher came into the class with a bundle of papers. THE bundle of papers. My essay, my biggest failure to date, was in there. Mr. Vekeman had a sorrowful look on his face. He was displeased. He started handing out the essays without having spoken a word. Slowly. I looked at my classmates’ reactions and saw despair written on their faces. The only sound in the class was the ruffling of papers and little gasps of disappointment. Of shock. Everyone around me had had their essays handed back to them. Some had gotten zero out of twenty. But where was my essay?
The teacher stood in front of the class with one paper in his hand.
“Now I will read the essay of the one person who managed to get it right. The one person who got the maximum score.”
He started to read.
I beamed with pride.
My classmates looked at me and smiled.
They liked it too.
4. Joking
The preparations for the camp fire were well under way. The firewood had been stacked, the music installation was set up, the tables where the hotdogs would be prepared were in place. Most kids were already returning to their rooms to get dressed for the big night. The shadows were getting longer, the breeze was getting cooler as I set to work on the bucket. I had made the children laugh already once during that football game, and I resolved to do it again, only this time not at anyone’s expense. I felt ready. I giggled at the scenario that played out in my head. I felt ready. I pictured Lea’s blush and playful look as I was gracefully accepting the laughter and applause. I felt ready.
The show was already well underway when I started to get nervous. Kids had been dancing and singing, sure, but there were also some that had been funny. Funny was my plan! And suddenly, after some kids were done impersonating Andrea Bocelli, it was my turn. Me and my bucket of mayonnaise. There I stood, in front of the very same audience who had seen my p-p, an audience that might as well have been a mouth to hell. I began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you this new brand of paint!”
I showed them the side of the bucket that I had covered with a piece of paper, with the word PAINT scribbled on it.
“It is the thing to get in your homes, ladies and gentlemen. It can be used in your living rooms, garages, kitchens, for your garden shacks, for walls and ceilings alike! Get this paint now! It’s water resistant! It’s whiter with a delicate touch of yellow! It’s wonderful!”
Timing was everything. I turned around the bucket, showing people the label of mayonnaise.
“AND IT TASTES SO GOOD!!”
And then, there was silence.
A silence I will never forget.
3. Caring
We went into the creek in search for the frogs. A part of me was hoping the little amphibians would be too quick for us, too clever, but after what seemed like only a couple of seconds Christopher had already caught one. “Look, it’s a big one!”, he said. I looked and expressed my high esteem for his frog-catching talents, hoping he would free the animal soon. He did. But he wasn’t done yet. He would teach me to catch one for myself. I was taught to combine luring with patience and swiftness. The trick is not to grab them, but to just make them jump into your hands. I went about it rather half-heartedly, but that day I learnt never to underestimate a frog’s eagerness to be caught. Without really trying I had caught a frog. Not entirely according to procedure, as it was dangling from my hands with one of its legs stuck between my fingers, but got it I did! I showed it to Christopher and quickly threw it away. “What are you doing? We’re taking them home! To show to your mother! We can build them a little park in a Tupperware box, they’ll have the time of their lives!” Back to square one. I was dreading the return journey with a frog in my hands, so I expertly managed to not catch one. To no avail. Christopher quickly caught two and gave me one to carry. “Be careful so that it doesn’t jump away.” he said. The frog was placed gently on the palm of my hand. I put my other hand over it and thus we walked back home, talking about the things we’d build and the fun the frogs would have. Having a frog in my hand wasn’t all that bad. After a while it stopped feeling so cold and it didn’t move around as much as I expected. I started to feel connected with the little creature. My little friend would be a hero among frogs, with plenty of stories to tell about Tupperwarepark. By the time we got home I felt like a Crocodile Dundee in the making. Excitedly I shouted to my mom to get us a box. She hurried out and asked us what we were up to. Proudly we showed our catch. A beautiful frog in Christopher’s hand. A squished pancake of peas in mine.
2. Drawing
I erased the sun’s smile. I drew some faceless clouds and faceless trees, a little house and a breeze. How did I draw a breeze? I just drew some flowers that tilted to the left. I drew children playing with a ball. Not because I played with a ball that summer, but because drawing a kid playing with miniature cars was too difficult. The cars would come out too big or the stance of the kid too awkward, so I decided to just keep it out of the drawing. Looking at those happy kids playing with that ball, I kind of got angry. Stupid kids. Stupid ball. What could ruin their dull everyday day? I pondered. And then I drew a bee. A big, fat bee that was caught in the middle of their ball throwing shenanigans. A big, angry bee that would enact its vengeance on those big blue eyes. A fat, crazy bee that would turn those hapless smiles upside down. The vengeance didn’t take place in the drawing. But it took place in my mind. And on the classroom window. You see, the teacher had the idea of having every kid copy something from their own drawing and paint it on the window. The teacher saw many drawings with children playing with balls, with houses and trees and even flowers in the breeze, but he only saw one with a bee. And so it was me who got to draw a big, fat bee in the summer scenery of the classroom window. A bee that would stay there for the rest of the year. “Who needs a smiling sun, high up in the sky?”, I thought, “When there’s so many reasons to smile right inside my head.”
1. Counting
I don’t remember when I started to tire of counting. The numbers seemed to lose their magic as they got bigger. Three houses seemed so much more interesting than hundreds of buildings. The five apple trees in our garden paled in comparison with the forests I saw on TV. My little world of twenty-sixes, seventeens and fours divided by twos seemed so insignificant. What’s the good of counting if it never stops before it gets boring, or if it never stops at all? What’s the sense of having a number like 76983? There’s just too much to handle. I’ve only got two hands and one head, so how can I be expected to count all those stars above? So I stopped looking up, and I looked down. Down at my hands. I put my hands on the table and looked at the back of my left hand. My pinkie was one. My thumb was five. 1-2-3-4-5. My right hand became 5-4-3-2-1. I made my thumbs overlap. 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Who needs infinity? Now this was counting that I could handle. Symmetrical. Harmonious. Leaving for a trip and coming back home. Counting that I enjoyed. Counting that I could never tire of. Counting up towards a crescendo and counting down to a blissful conclusion of peace.
I don’t remember exactly when I learnt to count. It feels like one of my earliest memories, and one of my most profound. Things started to make sense right there and then. That mountain of peas on my plate felt a lot less menacing when I could count that there were only 36 of them. My collection of Dinky Toys was all the more impressive when I realized I had a whopping 24 miniature cars to play with. My enjoyment of candies increased when I realised 5 became 4 and 4 become 0 real quick. I enjoyed counting. I would count cars, trees, birds, buildings, pens, clouds, ants, marbles, blades of grass and the freckles on my father’s arm. I counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and beyond. And I counted on a world of possibilities that are as infinite as they are manageable.
2. Drawing
The holidays were over and the grey clouds of September carried the overpowering smell of the school’s soup with them. It’s a smell that was embedded in the classroom’s walls, in my books, in my clothes. A smell that could only be shaken off by a warm summer breeze and rolling around in the grass. Presently I found myself in a school made of concrete, holding down the grass and keeping out the breeze. The first assignment the teacher gave us was to look back on that beautiful summer and draw our best memory. The smell of soup filled my nostrils. Pea soup. It wasn’t always pea soup but it always smelled like pea soup. And the thing with soup is that there’s no telling how many peas were in there. How could I recall anything of summer in this environment of grey walls and brownish green soup? The teacher was hovering over me when I had just started drawing. I had begun like I always began: a smiling sun in the top left corner. “The sun doesn’t have a face.”, the teacher told me flatly. The foundation of every drawing I had made crumbled and so did my childhood. But I had a drawing to finish. A drawing of happier times where the sun was still allowed to smile, a drawing of times that suddenly seemed miles away.
3. Caring
Summers in my childhood street were beautiful. The street was a loop, shaped very much like a “b”, with houses on all sides. Only cars who had to be there would pass by, so the street belonged to us, us being me and a friend who was visiting. We had met each other on holidays in Rhodes, and given that we were the only two Flemish kids there, at an age where our differences didn’t matter as much as the games we could play together, we got along really well. His parents dropped him off for a week every summer since then. Christopher was a lot more adventurous than I was and whenever he came around we explored new areas, climbed trees, built camps and stole apples. One summer we were at a little creek, at the tip of the “b”, and heard the sound of frogs. “Did you ever catch a frog?”, Christopher asked. I hadn’t. I didn’t like little living things. They scared me, as I pictured them jumping into my eye or crawling under my skin. I had seen Christopher catch huge bugs in Rhodes that were resting on trees, insects that terrified me and would haunt many of my nightmares. But I never wanted to show him my weakness in this regard. “I’ll show you how to catch a frog.”, he said. And I told him “ok”, with a heart that felt like the size of a pea.
4. Joking
Language camps were my parents’ favourite thing to send me off to. It was a great way for me to make new friends, learn another language and get out of the house without them needing to worry. The first language camp I went to was on a farm that was called “The Falcon”. The idea was to have the children speak in English to each other all the time, and thus learn new vocabulary as they were playing. So getting out of the house? Check! Learning another language? Check! Making new friends? Kcehc… I had just started wearing glasses and was still pretty insecure about them, with camp being the first time I’d be wearing them in public. I thought things would be fine because I knew a friend who was going as well, so at least I’d have him to hang around with. Sadly, he abandoned me the first day, even before my parents’ car drove out of sight. He had a really cool cap from the Charlotte Hornets, green and purple, with the visor bent into a “U”. I had a cap too. It was white, aside from the rims that were yellowed by months of perspiration, and had the logo of a cheap beer brand. The visor was as flat as an ironing board. Who could blame him for looking for other friends with cooler caps? I was mocked and ridiculed within the first hour of being at camp, even before rooms were appointed. Eventually I got to share my room with an asthmatic kid, who was my only competitor for being the camp’s social outcast. While I sympathised with his condition, his loud snoring at night made it difficult for me to be genuinely warm to him. And after he pulled down my pants in the middle of a football game, with the entire camp (girls included) watching, difficult became impossible.
One of the highlights of the camp was the camp fire. At that time the children were asked to prepare something, like a dance or a sketch, to show in front of the others. Groups were eagerly formed and as the other kids were practicing their singing and their acrobatics, I found myself alone and without ideas. Until I saw an empty bucket with the label of a brand of mayonnaise.
5. Writing
High school was pretty good to me. I had a nice group of friends, my grades were okay, and I didn’t have to exert myself too much in order to obtain them. One teacher tried to change all that. Mr. Vekeman, who gave courses for Dutch, didn’t like me. In fact, he hated me. He had noticed that I was lazy and that I didn’t pay attention. While that was true, the problem was that he took all of this personally. As if my lack of devotion for Dutch somehow brought to light his own failure at being an interesting person.
One day he gave us an assignment: to write an essay on the topic of “responsibility”. He showed an example of a particular type of essay, the one where a fictional story is interspersed with social commentary, both feeding in to each other. It looked pretty cool. Finally an assignment I liked!
I started writing about a guy left home alone, his parents leaving on a holiday. He organised a big party instead of doing his homework. This story ran parallel with some remarks on how responsibility is obtained or bestowed and the ways in which one can wriggle out of them. Of course, the whole thing blew up in that guy’s face, allowing me the conclusion that the vomit of his drunken friends in the pool was what brought home the importance of responsibility. The lesson that it was only when you took your responsibility that the luxury of swimming without finding a stray pea in your course would be yours. I handed in the essay with confidence and discussed it with my friends. They smirked. They told me I hadn’t understood the assignment correctly. We were supposed to write a normal essay, without all the fiction that our teacher deemed ridiculous. He had given us an example in class, not because he liked it, but to show us how it should never be done. An example which I followed. A style that my teacher despised and would find in an essay with my name on it.
6. Reviewing
I’m on Goodreads, present day. I’ve just read Cloud Atlas, a wonderful achievement by a gifted author. A book that is difficult to summarize because of its scope. It’s a tale that spans six different times, places and genres . There are many lines that connect these tales, but the first one worth noting is the brilliance of David Mitchell. It takes daring to write a book like this, and skill. He’s got both. First of all, there’s his mastery of English language. Just consider the following quotes:
”A ringing phone flips Luisa’s dreams over and she lands in a moonlit room."
I wouln't be surprised if David Mitchell has a similarly shaped birthmark as Charles Dickens had.
”The cold sank its fangs into my exposed neck and frisked me for uninsulated patches.”
Not convinced?
” Hot glass office buildings where the blooms of youth harden into aged cacti like my penny-pinching brother.”
Okay, just one more:
” The memory cracked on the hard rim of my heart and the yolk dribbled out.”
This book uses many different styles. Some stories are presented in the form of a letter, others are a journal, still others are an interview. Given that it spans different centuries, language itself is transformed. The chapters set in the 19th century made me grab my dictionary once in a while, while the stories set into the future are an experiment much in the same vain as “A Clockwork Orange” or “Riddley Walker” are. The language that Mitchell foresees for the future is less pleasing to both the ear and the eye than Burgess’ Nadsat. The stories set in the future registered a bit less in my mind for that reason.
Aside from his mastery of language and his propensity of delivering powerful aphorisms, Mitchell can enter the mind of any character one can imagine. He knows the workings of an ageing publisher as well as those of a gifted musical composer, he describes the life of a mass-produced clone as well as that of a 19th century notary traveling on the Pacific.
Six stories are contained in Cloud Atlas. The way they are connected is usually very subtle, though the author sometimes can’t help himself and waves a certain birthmark in your face. The blurb at the back says it’s about power, and true enough, many insights from many different perspectives are given on the nature, pitfalls and omnipresence of power and mankind's thirst for it. But I think that the true essence of this book, for me, can better be summarised with the author’s own words:
"Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds and contrary tides. I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds. "
Aside from this central and ethereal theme, the stories in Cloud Atlas each have their own plot. There’s one about an escape from a retirement home, which is my favourite. It’s got the perfect mix of humour, tension and philosophical musings. The protagonist, Timothy Cavendish, is a bit embittered and looks at the world around him with a very sceptical, but nonetheless thoroughly perceiving eye. His ghastly ordeal is the best thing I’ve read this year and that story alone is worth reading this book. The letters from Zedelghem castle, located in a little Belgian town, were also a highlight with the usage of refined language and a rather direct protagonist.
What cost this book a star is the story about the first Luisa Rey mystery. It’s got a good villain and one good line (the one about dreams flipping over), but other than that it brings the book down. First of all: it’s not a mystery. The story, pulled by its hairs as it is, is riddled with plotholes and clichés. (view spoiler). Was this a conscious choice by the author, employing the superficial, no-attention-to-detail “Hollywood”-style to give yet another flavour to Cloud Atlas? Probably, but that doesn’t mean I should like it.
But the overall experience of Cloud Atlas: Mesmerizing. Inspiring. Amazing. What really makes this book shine is its structure, the prose of an author who swims in English like an otter in a pond, and, of course, the grand idea of trying to make, draw and write an atlas of clouds, and succeeding.
5. Writing
A couple of days had passed and I had almost succeeded in forgetting about that essay. The sword that was dangling above my head had disappeared over the weekend, but come Monday morning that very same sword shot through the stars on a course straight for the top of my head. I could feel its heated presence in the air and was just wishing it would all be over soon when the teacher came into the class with a bundle of papers. THE bundle of papers. My essay, my biggest failure to date, was in there. Mr. Vekeman had a sorrowful look on his face. He was displeased. He started handing out the essays without having spoken a word. Slowly. I looked at my classmates’ reactions and saw despair written on their faces. The only sound in the class was the ruffling of papers and little gasps of disappointment. Of shock. Everyone around me had had their essays handed back to them. Some had gotten zero out of twenty. But where was my essay?
The teacher stood in front of the class with one paper in his hand.
“Now I will read the essay of the one person who managed to get it right. The one person who got the maximum score.”
He started to read.
I beamed with pride.
My classmates looked at me and smiled.
They liked it too.
4. Joking
The preparations for the camp fire were well under way. The firewood had been stacked, the music installation was set up, the tables where the hotdogs would be prepared were in place. Most kids were already returning to their rooms to get dressed for the big night. The shadows were getting longer, the breeze was getting cooler as I set to work on the bucket. I had made the children laugh already once during that football game, and I resolved to do it again, only this time not at anyone’s expense. I felt ready. I giggled at the scenario that played out in my head. I felt ready. I pictured Lea’s blush and playful look as I was gracefully accepting the laughter and applause. I felt ready.
The show was already well underway when I started to get nervous. Kids had been dancing and singing, sure, but there were also some that had been funny. Funny was my plan! And suddenly, after some kids were done impersonating Andrea Bocelli, it was my turn. Me and my bucket of mayonnaise. There I stood, in front of the very same audience who had seen my p-p, an audience that might as well have been a mouth to hell. I began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you this new brand of paint!”
I showed them the side of the bucket that I had covered with a piece of paper, with the word PAINT scribbled on it.
“It is the thing to get in your homes, ladies and gentlemen. It can be used in your living rooms, garages, kitchens, for your garden shacks, for walls and ceilings alike! Get this paint now! It’s water resistant! It’s whiter with a delicate touch of yellow! It’s wonderful!”
Timing was everything. I turned around the bucket, showing people the label of mayonnaise.
“AND IT TASTES SO GOOD!!”
And then, there was silence.
A silence I will never forget.
3. Caring
We went into the creek in search for the frogs. A part of me was hoping the little amphibians would be too quick for us, too clever, but after what seemed like only a couple of seconds Christopher had already caught one. “Look, it’s a big one!”, he said. I looked and expressed my high esteem for his frog-catching talents, hoping he would free the animal soon. He did. But he wasn’t done yet. He would teach me to catch one for myself. I was taught to combine luring with patience and swiftness. The trick is not to grab them, but to just make them jump into your hands. I went about it rather half-heartedly, but that day I learnt never to underestimate a frog’s eagerness to be caught. Without really trying I had caught a frog. Not entirely according to procedure, as it was dangling from my hands with one of its legs stuck between my fingers, but got it I did! I showed it to Christopher and quickly threw it away. “What are you doing? We’re taking them home! To show to your mother! We can build them a little park in a Tupperware box, they’ll have the time of their lives!” Back to square one. I was dreading the return journey with a frog in my hands, so I expertly managed to not catch one. To no avail. Christopher quickly caught two and gave me one to carry. “Be careful so that it doesn’t jump away.” he said. The frog was placed gently on the palm of my hand. I put my other hand over it and thus we walked back home, talking about the things we’d build and the fun the frogs would have. Having a frog in my hand wasn’t all that bad. After a while it stopped feeling so cold and it didn’t move around as much as I expected. I started to feel connected with the little creature. My little friend would be a hero among frogs, with plenty of stories to tell about Tupperwarepark. By the time we got home I felt like a Crocodile Dundee in the making. Excitedly I shouted to my mom to get us a box. She hurried out and asked us what we were up to. Proudly we showed our catch. A beautiful frog in Christopher’s hand. A squished pancake of peas in mine.
2. Drawing
I erased the sun’s smile. I drew some faceless clouds and faceless trees, a little house and a breeze. How did I draw a breeze? I just drew some flowers that tilted to the left. I drew children playing with a ball. Not because I played with a ball that summer, but because drawing a kid playing with miniature cars was too difficult. The cars would come out too big or the stance of the kid too awkward, so I decided to just keep it out of the drawing. Looking at those happy kids playing with that ball, I kind of got angry. Stupid kids. Stupid ball. What could ruin their dull everyday day? I pondered. And then I drew a bee. A big, fat bee that was caught in the middle of their ball throwing shenanigans. A big, angry bee that would enact its vengeance on those big blue eyes. A fat, crazy bee that would turn those hapless smiles upside down. The vengeance didn’t take place in the drawing. But it took place in my mind. And on the classroom window. You see, the teacher had the idea of having every kid copy something from their own drawing and paint it on the window. The teacher saw many drawings with children playing with balls, with houses and trees and even flowers in the breeze, but he only saw one with a bee. And so it was me who got to draw a big, fat bee in the summer scenery of the classroom window. A bee that would stay there for the rest of the year. “Who needs a smiling sun, high up in the sky?”, I thought, “When there’s so many reasons to smile right inside my head.”
1. Counting
I don’t remember when I started to tire of counting. The numbers seemed to lose their magic as they got bigger. Three houses seemed so much more interesting than hundreds of buildings. The five apple trees in our garden paled in comparison with the forests I saw on TV. My little world of twenty-sixes, seventeens and fours divided by twos seemed so insignificant. What’s the good of counting if it never stops before it gets boring, or if it never stops at all? What’s the sense of having a number like 76983? There’s just too much to handle. I’ve only got two hands and one head, so how can I be expected to count all those stars above? So I stopped looking up, and I looked down. Down at my hands. I put my hands on the table and looked at the back of my left hand. My pinkie was one. My thumb was five. 1-2-3-4-5. My right hand became 5-4-3-2-1. I made my thumbs overlap. 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Who needs infinity? Now this was counting that I could handle. Symmetrical. Harmonious. Leaving for a trip and coming back home. Counting that I enjoyed. Counting that I could never tire of. Counting up towards a crescendo and counting down to a blissful conclusion of peace.
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Reading Progress
March 23, 2016
–
Started Reading
March 23, 2016
– Shelved
March 24, 2016
–
7.72%
""As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in imperfect simulacrums of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the thorny swamp of dissent.""
page
42
March 25, 2016
–
16.18%
""I swear, Sixsmith, that warty old Shylock looks more repulsive every time I clap eyes on him. Has he got a magical portrait of himself stashed in his attic, getting more beautiful by the year?""
page
88
March 30, 2016
–
74.63%
""Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds and contrary tides. I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable?""
page
406
March 31, 2016
–
83.82%
"The First Luisa Rey mystery was kind of disappointing. Did anyone else who read this notice the plothole? Looks like David Mitchell forgot about the whole locker N0909 thing?"
page
456
March 31, 2016
–
90.44%
""Adrian would still be alive if "plucky little Belgium" never existed. Someone should turn this dwarf-country into a giant boting lake and toss in Belgium's inventor, his feet tied to a Minerva."
Always nice to see one's beloved fatherland figure in British literature!"
page
492
Always nice to see one's beloved fatherland figure in British literature!"
March 31, 2016
–
90.44%
""Adrian would still be alive if "plucky little Belgium" never existed. Someone should turn this dwarf-country into a giant boating lake and toss in Belgium's inventor, his feet tied to a Minerva."
Always nice to see one's beloved fatherland figure in British literature"
page
492
Always nice to see one's beloved fatherland figure in British literature"
April 1, 2016
– Shelved as:
my-reviews
April 1, 2016
– Shelved as:
out-of-the-box-reviews
April 1, 2016
–
Finished Reading
Comments Showing 1-50 of 66 (66 new)
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Murf the Surf
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Apr 01, 2016 07:23AM
Nice review....very creative in its format. I'd enjoyed the way you went forward then backwards. Keep on writing...Cheers.....Murf
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Murray Lewis Alexander Winship wrote: "Nice review....very creative in its format. I'd enjoyed the way you went forward then backwards. Keep on writing...Cheers.....Murf"Thank you Murf! I stole the format idea from the book itself, it does the same thing. Kind of felt right to try and use it in a review :-)
Wonderful review, I enjoyed everything in it. The mayonnaise silence left the biggest impression on me.I haven't been able to write much these days but I'm glad I can read your reviews! It's been one of the best things on here for me this year. Keep up the great work.
You had me on the edge of my seat wondering how the essay was received. Brilliant review and fully agree about Louisa Rey mystery being the weakest link. I think he did purposefully riddle it with cliches to playfully mock the genre but, like you say, doesn't mean we have to like it.
Awesome review, Matthias. :)
Wonderful essay, Matthias. Mr. Vekeman should feel honoured featuring in your creation. I just think I won't be able anymore to prepare mashed peas for my family recalling the poor frog.
I followed the trail of that pea as if my life depended on it, Matthias - it was a purposeful journey, and I moved very smoothly forwards and backwards in the general vicinity of your Joyous Isles. A very pleasant journey, I have to say.
And I had the same reaction to the Luisa Rey episode.
Matthias, if I had to come up with a list of my top favorite reviews on Goodreads, this will from now on be one of the first reviews to consider putting on that list. (I feel like a sycophant now, but that's how I feel about this review.) I am so glad to have this book right next to me sitting on my shelves and waiting for me, so that I can read it as soon as possible - preferably before the end of this upcoming month. The way you structured your review in a similar way to the novel (I already figured out from different reviews that this depicts the structure of Cloud Atlas) is fantastic. Congratulations, Matthias, and thank you!
I see you have a shelf called "out of the box reviews"; not only do I love that name, I also think your unconventional review, tailor-made to fit the writing of Cloud Atlas itself is utterly magnificent. You have given me sufficient reason to up this book in my tbr, Matthias! What a refreshingly amazing review! :)
Outstanding! I was caught up in each one of your nesting doll stories. Clearly, this structuring device suits you! And kudos for your comments on Mitchell and his inspiring book, too.
This was a joy to read and a real encouragement to pick up this book, which has been languishing on my to-read list for some time now.
A most exceptional review, Matthias.
A great review, really creative and insightful.
Matthias, I liked your review more than I liked the book... and I gave the book four stars. While you imitated the book's structure, the connections between your stories actually felt meaningful rather than an impressive but largely pointless literary gimmick.
Junta wrote: "Wonderful review, I enjoyed everything in it. The mayonnaise silence left the biggest impression on me.I haven't been able to write much these days but I'm glad I can read your reviews! It's been..."
I'm glad you enjoyed this Junta! I noticed you wrote a little less lately, but for me too, energy I can devote to writing comes in waves. The start of this year was a slow one reading-and-writing-wise, as you perhaps remember, so I'm making up for that now, with no small thanks to your kind encouragements (which contrast greatly with some mayonnaise silences I have known).
Violet wrote: "You had me on the edge of my seat wondering how the essay was received. Brilliant review and fully agree about Louisa Rey mystery being the weakest link. I think he did purposefully riddle it with ..."Thank you Violet! You had me on the edge of my seat when it comes to the reception of this review, and once again I find myself beaming with pride when reading your kind comment. And yes, the true mystery of Luisa Rey is how she made it into this otherwise wonderful book, but I don't want to be too harsh either. I'm sure "Cloud Atlas" has readers in its ranks that considered this one to be their favorite for all the action it contained. It just wasn't my cup of tea, though I admit to having watched "The Expendables 2" last night. Just to show I am not completely averse to Hollywood's temptations.
Kalliope wrote: "7. Liking. "8. Thanking. ;-)
Linda wrote: "Awesome review, Matthias. :)"This book was quite a ride! It was nice to have you tag along throughout status updates and this review. Something tells me you're quite fond of Cloud Atlas and I'm glad this review did nothing to change that. On to the next David Mitchell?
Ilse wrote: "Wonderful essay, Matthias. Mr. Vekeman should feel honoured featuring in your creation. I just think I won't be able anymore to prepare mashed peas for my family recalling the poor frog.":-D Sorry about that, Ilse, but I'm glad you liked this. I kind of like peas actually, as long as their green is not too yellowish. Frogs legs are a big no-no though.
Trish wrote: "Very cool review!"Molte grazie! Vielen Dank!
Jean-Paul wrote: "A splendid piece of creative writing Matthias. Your reviews are always an immense pleasure to read. Thank you for sharing these gems with us and making goodreads such a exiting and vibrant place! jp"Thank you Jean-Paul. It's the vibrant place that is Goodreads that has greatly inspired me to write this, so my thanks go back in equal measure to you, for taking the time to read this and sharing your enthusiastic encouragements! Cheers!
This is impressive! Wonderful work.
Matthias wrote: "Trish wrote: "Very cool review!"Molte grazie! Vielen Dank!"
Wow, you're bringing out the big guns now?! ;P
Fionnuala wrote: "I followed the trail of that pea as if my life depended on it, Matthias - it was a purposeful journey, and I moved very smoothly forwards and backwards in the general vicinity of your Joyous Isles...."Did you find all the peas Fio? :-D So glad you found this journey a pleasant one. Joyous Isles are all fine and dandy but they've got a name to live up to, after all.
Creativity, poignancy, humor; your reviews have it all, Matthias! A wonderful write-up about a book I'm adding to my TBR as soon as I finish writing this comment. Thanks for this amazing review, a lovely way to start this day.
Matthias wrote: " On to the next David Mitchell?"Indeed I was quite fond of Cloud Atlas. :) I've gone on to read just two more of his books so far - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet and Slade House. Loved Thousand Autumns. So many books out there, but I've got a couple more of his hopefully lined up for this year.
Councillor wrote: "Matthias, if I had to come up with a list of my top favorite reviews on Goodreads, this will from now on be one of the first reviews to consider putting on that list. (I feel like a sycophant now, ..."Thank you so much Councillor! Nothing sycophantic about it, in my view, just an objective estimation of this review's qualities ;-) Seriously, your praise is very much appreciated and most welcome. I'm eagerly looking forward to how you'll like this almost buddy-book of ours. Enjoy!
Anuradha wrote: "I see you have a shelf called "out of the box reviews"; not only do I love that name, I also think your unconventional review, tailor-made to fit the writing of Cloud Atlas itself is utterly magnif..."Haha, very perceptive eye Anuradha! I use that shelf whenever I get the crazy idea of getting creative all of a sudden :-p The results are mixed, but I'm glad you liked this one. Thank you for your kind comments. And you won't regret upping this book in your tbr list: it's great stuff!
Steve wrote: "Outstanding! I was caught up in each one of your nesting doll stories. Clearly, this structuring device suits you! And kudos for your comments on Mitchell and his inspiring book, too."Thank you Steve! Glad you stuck around long enough to catch this review before your departure ;-) ;-)
Christine wrote: "This was a joy to read and a real encouragement to pick up this book, which has been languishing on my to-read list for some time now."Let it languish no longer, Christine! I think you'll love it! :-)
Zoeytron wrote: "A most exceptional review, Matthias."Sidharth wrote: "Brilliant!"
Kevin wrote: "Wow, this is epic!"
Diane wrote: "This is impressive! Wonderful work."
Jason wrote: "Well done, Matthias! "
Melki wrote: "Wonderful review, Matthias! "
David wrote: "A great review, really creative and insightful."
Sorry for taking all of your wonderful comments together, but I'm running out of original ways to thank you all so just allow me to do it in one go: Huge Thanks!! :-D I am rather overwhelmed I have to admit :-)
Paul wrote: "Matthias, I liked your review more than I liked the book... and I gave the book four stars. While you imitated the book's structure, the connections between your stories actually felt meaningful ra..."Hahaha, oh you! You exaggerate!
Not complaining though, thank you for this very kind compliment. Of course I did have the luxury of not needing to spread this out in an entire novel, so we should give Mitchell at least some credit for that.
Florencia wrote: "Creativity, poignancy, humor; your reviews have it all, Matthias! A wonderful write-up about a book I'm adding to my TBR as soon as I finish writing this comment. Thanks for this amazing review, a ..."A breakfast review for champions! Hope the rest of your weekend was at least as pleasant as reading this review was for you. Thank you for your heartwarming comment Florencia :-)
Linda wrote: "Matthias wrote: " On to the next David Mitchell?"Indeed I was quite fond of Cloud Atlas. :) I've gone on to read just two more of his books so far - [book:The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet|714..."
I've got "Ghostwritten" and "number9dream" already on my shelves, so I'll probably start there, though I've been hearing such great things about "Black Swan Green" I might actually give that one a shot first. But I expect no David Mitchell book will be safe for me. It's been since Murakami and PKD that I've wanted to read everything a particular author has written. At least in Mitchell's case it seems somehow feasible.
I also have "number9dream" waiting on my shelf. And it's funny that you mention Murakami and PKD - I have the same feeling with those authors as well! :)
Linda wrote: "I also have "number9dream" waiting on my shelf. And it's funny that you mention Murakami and PKD - I have the same feeling with those authors as well! :)"I can see Murakami happening, but PKD has given us so much to read I really can't help wondering how he made the time to write it all. Any other person would need three lifetimes to do it! The fact that his books are so re-readable doesn't make it any easier. I've read "Do androids dream" already three times by now... Probably I should just prioritize better.
Talking of that, I can't help but feel that the term "fabricants" David Mitchell used for his clones is somehow inspired by Blade Runner's "replicants". That word is actually Riddley Scott's idea because he didn't like the word "android" used by PKD and all the preconceptions it carried.
Daaaaaaamn, Matthias, nice work here! Oh, traumatic camp stories...
Alex wrote: "Daaaaaaamn, Matthias, nice work here! Oh, traumatic camp stories..."Thank you Alex! No better way than including a little unresolved childhood trauma to spice up a review, is there? :-D
Matthias, this is just brilliant. It's a wonderful book that has inspired many creative, informative and entertaining reviews, but this is in a different league. I'd love to see what you could do with Calvino - an inspiration for Mitchell.
Cecily wrote: "Matthias, this is just brilliant. It's a wonderful book that has inspired many creative, informative and entertaining reviews, but this is in a different league. I'd love to see what you could do..."
Thank you Cecily for that amazing compliment! I noticed as well how Cloud Atlas managed to inspire many original reviews, I'm already glad that this one managed to live up to others' contributions. I'm definitely going to give "On a winter's night a traveler" a read, but lately there's so many books that keep ending up on the summit of my to-read pile, only to be topped by another one the day after. So I really don't know when Calvino's masterpieces will find their way from the bookshelf into my hands, though the day will surely come :-)
I don't want to pressure you (well, I do, a bit), but If on a winter's night is the one that pairs best with this, but it needs to be read slowly and carefully. Invisible Cities (the only other one of his I've read so far) is utterly different, equally good, but much easier to read.
Cecily wrote: "I don't want to pressure you (well, I do, a bit), but If on a winter's night is the one that pairs best with this, but it needs to be read slowly and carefully. Invisible Cities (the only other one..."Haha, ok, not wanting to sound like a pompous waiter at an overly popular restaurant who's been asked if there's any free tables even though you didn't make any reservations:
I'll see what I can do
I will definitely take your kind advice to heart! But there's also Riddley Walker still pulling at my sleeve ;-)
Riddley Walker goes well with part 6 of Cloud Atlas, which is probably why you're considering it. The dialect is hard to get used to - much harder than, for example, Clockwork Orange, because it's ALL written that way, rather than the odd word. Much of it is based on mishearings, puns, malapropisms. For example, "seedy" is "CD", I think. When you get stuck, try reading it aloud. Well, depending where you are! The language maybe hard, but it's a simple, post-apocalyptic story.
Oh dear!! This is stupendous!! What creative penning, Matthias! If this book is half as good as your review, I would count 10 postcards, draw on all of them an atlas in 10 different avatars, care for the clouds and the environment at large and scan all 10 postcards, jokingly write my name all over them and then, upon reviewing, delete mine and write yours and mail them all to Mr. Mitchell as a souvenir for him to keep and refer to, at all the important meets henceforth, uttering in sauce modesty, 'Now, THIS is how good I am' !
