As discussed in Part 1, Cloud Atlas is a collection of six,
seemingly-unrelated stories, each set in a different time and place, and
written in a different genre.
The only obvious link between them is the comet-shaped
birthmark each main character alludes to, almost casually. Ergo, the reader
starts to look for clues that the main characters are reincarnations of each
other. Luisa’s sense that she has (impossibly) heard Frobisher’s symphony
before reinforces this idea.
Frustratingly, however, there is no evidence of linear, spiritual
growth: each and every main character is as lost as the one who preceded them.
And the legacy hypothesis falls flat as well: although it’s
possible that Frobisher, for example, fathered children, it certainly wasn’t deliberate; and Sonmi-451 had little
opportunity (or perhaps not even the physical ability) to bear children. So Cloud Atlas isn’t a generational epic,
either, and the author is not using the birthmark as a genetic marker.
Common Threads
Upon closer scrutiny, there are common threads between
stories. For example, the work of the preceding character in each story
influences the following ones:
Adam Ewing’s diary is read by Robert Frobisher. Robert
Frobisher’s letters are read by Luisa Rey. Luisa’s story, in the form of a
detective series, is read by Timothy Cavendish. Sonmi-451 watches The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish.
Somni-451’s testimonial orison is viewed by Zach’ry. And Zach’ry’s story is
framed as an oral narration: the narrator is his son, passing on his father’s
story to his descendants.
Not only does each story incorporate the preceding stories
into their own, the vehicle of each story is different and evolving: Adam has a
diary, Frobisher has letters and a symphony, Luisa has a detective novel,
Timothy Cavendish has a screenplay, Somni-451 uses an orison, and Zach’ry, to
bring it all back full-circle, uses oral storytelling.
There are also numerous thematic and motif repetitions,
cleverly camouflaged, including references to Nefertiti, the number 6, the
theme of David vs. Goliath, and so on.
Also, each character is stuck, initially, like the reader, with only half
of their predecessor’s story – and each character expresses their frustration
with this. In fact, the author delightfully inserts a great deal of
self-referencing humour: “It would be a
better book if Hilary V. Hush weren’t so artsily-fartsily Clever. She had
written it in neat littler chapteroids, doubtless with one eye on the Hollywood
screenplay”.
What does it all
mean? What is the point?
Cloud Atlas may be intended as a balm for the despair
inherent in Atheism – that our lives are short, our influence limited, and our
existence almost futile.
I think that the author is trying to show us that our lives
can be important, no matter how small, and that the tiniest, most
inconsequential acts can have tremendous, unintended impact on complete
strangers. Which brings us back to the
comet birthmark. Instead of being simply
a clunky, awkward symbol of reincarnation, it represents the individual’s solitary,
but inspirational, journey. Despite its loneliness, a comet can been seen from
far, far away, and inspire those who see it. Yet the comet never knows what
effect it has.
We may live small, short lives but our stories live on, and
influence those who follow us; and for those of us who grapple with Atheism,
Cloud Atlas is a solace. The author is encouraging readers to create, be it
symphonies, novels, screenplays, letters – in short, to tell our stories. We
never know what impact we might have on in the hearts and minds of those that
follow us.
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