The good: David Mitchell is awesome. He makes up some really crazy, cool shit, and his language is often
superb. His stories are like the stories you wanted to write when you were in the third grade and you really wanted to be an adventurer/pearl diver (what? that's a career), but all grown up…
The bad: …but when he poops the bed, it’s kind of
embarrassing for all of us. The villain would not have been out of place in one of those Schumacher Batman movies. I think he even monologues before he offs someone?
Speaking of which, he talks A LOT about poop and piss and 18th century stuff like gout with the verbosity of a man who has
spent six months holed up, alone, in a musty library reading books possibly
called things like “Tropiqual Maladyes of a Curios Nature”. Also, I kept
thinking things like “As a woman, I am ashamed a man is making me feel this
uncomfortable about childbirth” and “Ew”.
So, I like this book, but of his three most recent
works, I’d place it last. Sorry, David Mitchell. You’re still one of my
favorite writers. I tell people to read you all the time. No one listens
though. That’s on me.