Sadly, this book is not written by British comedian David Mitchell, but by a less funny and much less sarcastic man of the same name. Nevertheless, I persevered in my reading because these very personal stories, narrated from the viewpoint of nine different individuals, are well-written, with a voyeuristic appeal. I admire how Mitchell gently weaves the accounts together, letting the reader discover the characters and events in common between them, instead of belaboring the connections. The main reason I didn’t give this book a higher rating is that I am unable to understand what the point of the whole thing is (and it’s not just that I’m too thick to “get” it – other reviewers seem equally unenlightened and even the book jacket was very vague in its description). The novel has the effect of a garment, beautifully embroidered and carefully sewn together, that cannot be worn because its random openings and panels don’t fit the human body.