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His hypnotic new novel, The Bone Clocks, crackles with invention and wit and sheer storytelling pleasure—it is fiction at its most spellbinding. Come September, when I turn sixteen, he’ll take me out on his Norton. Mam’s chopping cooking apples into cubes, giving me the silent treatment. Praise for The Bone Clocks “One of the most entertaining and thrilling novels I’ve read in a long time.”—Meg Wolitzer, NPR“[Mitchell] writes with a furious intensity and slapped-awake vitality, with a delight in language and all the rabbit holes of experience.”—The New York Times Book Review “Intensely compelling . I’m supposed to say, “What’s wrong, Mam, what have I done? Obviously she noticed I was back late last night, but I’ll let her raise the topic.
[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.
It’s not like Vinny’ll charge me rent, and I’ll look for a job next week. It’s not a girl’s glittering personality that men’re interested in, Holly. From the hallway I see Sharon behind the bar by the fruit juice shelves. Very few [writers] excite the reader about both the visceral world and the visionary one as Mitchell does.”—The New York Times Book Review (Editor’s Choice) “Intensely compelling .
I’ll give you three days before Romeo turfs you out.
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. Toothbrush and a handful of tampons—my period’s a bit late so it should start, like, any hour now. I hide the others under the loose floorboard, just for now, but as I’m putting the carpet back, I get the fright of my life: Jacko’s watching me from the doorway. ”Mam’s face sort of twitches, and if she says the right thing now, we’ll negotiate. I give her a little wave and she gives me one back, nervous. A cement truck trundles by and its fumy gust makes the conker tree sway a bit and rustle. Only Stella knows ’bout Vinny—she was there that first Saturday in the Magic Bus—but she can keep a secret. Not many novelists could take on plausible Aboriginal speech, imagine a world after climate change has ravaged it and wonder whether whales suffer from unrequited love.