I put down The Racer because it was making me cringe, and picked up Foundation instead, the first volume of Peter Ackroyd's History of England, but that turned out to be a real chore too (surprising and disappointing, as Ackroyd is usually so brilliantly readable) so I put that down too and dipped into some early Wodehouse short stories from a volume called The Man With Two Left Feet, and they proved to be a bit of a curate's egg, so I put that down too and picked up Black Swan Green and...
Well, I read it in pretty much one sitting.
I have to admit it didn't grab me from the off like Bone Clocks or Thousand Autumns did. First half is like Adrian Mole but not as funny, and less authentic. Slightly irritating, even. But then it gradually becomes less a catalogue of period detail and ersatz teenage dialogue, and more a poignant reflection on actions and consequences, and the importance of understanding the bigger picture. It's outwardly a more conventional narrative than anything else I've read by David Mitchell but still weaves in enough fantastical elements to be recognisably his work, while keeping them just the right side of believability.
Superb.
