that no individual style becomes boring; on the contrary, each is revitalizing and part of a process that is a bit like flicking through the tabs of a multitasking browser before returning to an article on the original page. These two stylistic maneuvers both work to engage readers who enjoy the act of reading, who enjoy being allowed by an author to feel intelligent and in on the secret. The interruption that is then resolved more or less requires the reader to go back and forth to understand the full meaning of the sentence and ensures that they are left with lingering anticipation of the conclusion of each interrupted thought (since it becomes obvious that in mid-sentence breaks with hyphens will not be followed, and those without will be). On the other hand, those muffled sentences ended inconclusively with a hyphen can only be filled in by our imagination. They are balanced on a tantalizing edge, a kind of Keatsian negative capacity that, whether this is actually the case or not, gives us the impression that the narrator is hiding a great truth - a key to the text. It does not matter whether a truth or key is hidden or not, because what matters is that it produces and promotes a feeling of searching for such clues. The reader has engaged with the text by teasing the narrative, and as a result, seemingly innocuous sentences begin to seem more important to understanding the characters, the story, and the project as a whole. A sentence like "There are people who think that death is a fate worse than boredom" (19), when one is conditioned to understand the text that way – metafictionally – seems to reflect not only Sibylla, but also DeWitt. However obscure, scattered or indecipherable it may sometimes seem, the story never gets boring, avoiding lingering in the densest moments and using a veritable arsenal of formal and stylistic devices. The explanation that Sibylla gives a few pages later about the Alexandrians' motivations seems little more than a description of her own story, for what is she but someone who goes into ecstasies "in strange, fractured speeches, studded with an unjustly neglected vocabulary” (21)? What is the novel itself if not “a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” (21) which tells the story of a boy in search of a father? The key passage, however, the one that finally allows the reader to breathe a sigh of relief and encourages them to continue. by analyzing the convoluted text -- can be found on page sixty-three. At this point, languages other than English were established in important roles in the novel, and although the first block of German was eventually translated, French and Greek entered without translation, entire syllabaries were included and sentences were split between the two. each word with long Greek words inserted in an almost absurd manner. It is therefore with some relief that, reading Schopenhauer, Sibylla states: "[the assertion that] in a book... Italians should speak Italian because in the real world they speak Italian and the Chinese should speak Chinese. because the Chinese speak Chinese, it’s a rather naive way of thinking about art” (63). The argument is apparently simply that of the narrator reflecting on his own conceptions of art, but coming sixty pages into a highly stylized novel making extensive use of metafictional devices and repeated use of foreign languages without serious reliance on meaning, the argument she describes immediately illuminates and provides a manifesto for the more confusing passages behind it and prepares the reader for what is to come. More importantly, however, once again the reader is allowed to feelcomplicit with the author in his ability to make these connections, and is thus encouraged to enjoy the novel by remembering the active pleasures of reading. David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas doesn't promote a self-aware reader as easily, or at least not as immediately. Mitchell's novel is much more story-based, relying less heavily on facts, philosophical digressions, graphics, and (one must assume) autobiographical details than The Last Samurai. It is therefore much more anchored in literary tradition (or in several of them), in the strict sense; Nonetheless, Mitchell appears to keep in mind many of the same concerns as DeWitt in an effort to appeal to a contemporary readership with short attention spans, cynical worldviews, and "seen it all" attitudes. (Perhaps this effect also occurs more naturally due to belonging to this readership.) But where DeWitt decided to try to invent a new form, a new style and a new voice to circumvent the clichés and To surprise his readers, Mitchell chose to adopt appropriate forms and infuse them with appropriate and expected styles and voices, although often slightly more stylized and elegant. Mitchell allows his readers to fully immerse themselves in each of the six worlds that make up his novel via the comfort and familiarity of experienced forms before hitting them hard on the descent with the suddenly more explicit demarcations of the themes that are woven. through them. There is no doubt that the opening sentences of the first section, "The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing", are meant to evoke Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, a fact which will surely not escape informed readers. Mitchell's homage to the first novelist (and, more fervently, to Melville) begins with sentences both fashionably credible and yet so perfectly lyrical and picturesque: "...a white man, his trousers and his rolled-up camisole, sporting a well-groomed beard and an oversized beaver, shoveling and sifting ashy sand with a teaspoon..." (3) -- that he takes on the distinct feel of a dedicated blogger in an intentionally archaic voice filled with ampersands and outdated spelling to dramatize a vacation in the South Pacific. Yet the fidelity of the style is of little importance when it comes to its power of persuasion, for the playfulness of the language only adds to the captivating character of the diary and makes it enjoyable to immerse yourself in a story that artfully updates a rich literary past. In fact, the narrator of the next section, "Letters from Zedelghem," professes his interest in the diary when he discovers it, writing that there is "something doubtful about the authenticity of the diary – it seems too structured for a real newspaper, and its language it doesn't quite ring true” (64). Thus the author's own conscious understanding of his stylistic artifice is revealed; it simultaneously anticipates criticism of vocabulary choices and allows for one of the first metafictional and self-reflective moments that will continue to appear with greater frequency as the novel progresses. But it is the way in which the novel progresses that is its most engaging element. Although the narrative is loosely connected as a whole – spanning centuries, continents, and five hundred pages – it is composed according to a rigid, pyramid-like structure that never demands too much of the reader. DeWitt chose to hold readers' attention by snapping his fingers in their faces every few paragraphs and saying, "Look at that!" ALL CAPS and some biographical details about John Stuart Mill and a Greek syllabary! These choices make his story work a bit like a.

Essay / that no individual style becomes boring; on the contrary, each is revitalizing and part of a process that is a bit like flicking through the tabs of a multitasking browser before returning to an article on the original page. These two stylistic maneuvers both work to engage readers who enjoy the act of reading, who enjoy being allowed by an author to feel intelligent and in on the secret. The interruption that is then resolved more or less requires the reader to go back and forth to understand the full meaning of the sentence and ensures that they are left with lingering anticipation of the conclusion of each interrupted thought (since it becomes obvious that in mid-sentence breaks with hyphens will not be followed, and those without will be). On the other hand, those muffled sentences ended inconclusively with a hyphen can only be filled in by our imagination. They are balanced on a tantalizing edge, a kind of Keatsian negative capacity that, whether this is actually the case or not, gives us the impression that the narrator is hiding a great truth - a key to the text. It does not matter whether a truth or key is hidden or not, because what matters is that it produces and promotes a feeling of searching for such clues. The reader has engaged with the text by teasing the narrative, and as a result, seemingly innocuous sentences begin to seem more important to understanding the characters, the story, and the project as a whole. A sentence like "There are people who think that death is a fate worse than boredom" (19), when one is conditioned to understand the text that way – metafictionally – seems to reflect not only Sibylla, but also DeWitt. However obscure, scattered or indecipherable it may sometimes seem, the story never gets boring, avoiding lingering in the densest moments and using a veritable arsenal of formal and stylistic devices. The explanation that Sibylla gives a few pages later about the Alexandrians' motivations seems little more than a description of her own story, for what is she but someone who goes into ecstasies "in strange, fractured speeches, studded with an unjustly neglected vocabulary” (21)? What is the novel itself if not “a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” (21) which tells the story of a boy in search of a father? The key passage, however, the one that finally allows the reader to breathe a sigh of relief and encourages them to continue. by analyzing the convoluted text -- can be found on page sixty-three. At this point, languages other than English were established in important roles in the novel, and although the first block of German was eventually translated, French and Greek entered without translation, entire syllabaries were included and sentences were split between the two. each word with long Greek words inserted in an almost absurd manner. It is therefore with some relief that, reading Schopenhauer, Sibylla states: "[the assertion that] in a book... Italians should speak Italian because in the real world they speak Italian and the Chinese should speak Chinese. because the Chinese speak Chinese, it’s a rather naive way of thinking about art” (63). The argument is apparently simply that of the narrator reflecting on his own conceptions of art, but coming sixty pages into a highly stylized novel making extensive use of metafictional devices and repeated use of foreign languages without serious reliance on meaning, the argument she describes immediately illuminates and provides a manifesto for the more confusing passages behind it and prepares the reader for what is to come. More importantly, however, once again the reader is allowed to feelcomplicit with the author in his ability to make these connections, and is thus encouraged to enjoy the novel by remembering the active pleasures of reading. David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas doesn't promote a self-aware reader as easily, or at least not as immediately. Mitchell's novel is much more story-based, relying less heavily on facts, philosophical digressions, graphics, and (one must assume) autobiographical details than The Last Samurai. It is therefore much more anchored in literary tradition (or in several of them), in the strict sense; Nonetheless, Mitchell appears to keep in mind many of the same concerns as DeWitt in an effort to appeal to a contemporary readership with short attention spans, cynical worldviews, and "seen it all" attitudes. (Perhaps this effect also occurs more naturally due to belonging to this readership.) But where DeWitt decided to try to invent a new form, a new style and a new voice to circumvent the clichés and To surprise his readers, Mitchell chose to adopt appropriate forms and infuse them with appropriate and expected styles and voices, although often slightly more stylized and elegant. Mitchell allows his readers to fully immerse themselves in each of the six worlds that make up his novel via the comfort and familiarity of experienced forms before hitting them hard on the descent with the suddenly more explicit demarcations of the themes that are woven. through them. There is no doubt that the opening sentences of the first section, "The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing", are meant to evoke Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, a fact which will surely not escape informed readers. Mitchell's homage to the first novelist (and, more fervently, to Melville) begins with sentences both fashionably credible and yet so perfectly lyrical and picturesque: "...a white man, his trousers and his rolled-up camisole, sporting a well-groomed beard and an oversized beaver, shoveling and sifting ashy sand with a teaspoon..." (3) -- that he takes on the distinct feel of a dedicated blogger in an intentionally archaic voice filled with ampersands and outdated spelling to dramatize a vacation in the South Pacific. Yet the fidelity of the style is of little importance when it comes to its power of persuasion, for the playfulness of the language only adds to the captivating character of the diary and makes it enjoyable to immerse yourself in a story that artfully updates a rich literary past. In fact, the narrator of the next section, "Letters from Zedelghem," professes his interest in the diary when he discovers it, writing that there is "something doubtful about the authenticity of the diary – it seems too structured for a real newspaper, and its language it doesn't quite ring true” (64). Thus the author's own conscious understanding of his stylistic artifice is revealed; it simultaneously anticipates criticism of vocabulary choices and allows for one of the first metafictional and self-reflective moments that will continue to appear with greater frequency as the novel progresses. But it is the way in which the novel progresses that is its most engaging element. Although the narrative is loosely connected as a whole – spanning centuries, continents, and five hundred pages – it is composed according to a rigid, pyramid-like structure that never demands too much of the reader. DeWitt chose to hold readers' attention by snapping his fingers in their faces every few paragraphs and saying, "Look at that!" ALL CAPS and some biographical details about John Stuart Mill and a Greek syllabary! These choices make his story work a bit like a.

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