David Mitchell, it seems to me, has a gift for conjuring a story-illusion, seducing the reader into the narrative, and then dropping the reader out of the dream abruptly. I find myself initially frustrated (” . . . but I wanted to know what was going to happen to that character! I liked her and I want to . . . .”). Then within 2-3 pages, he has drawn me into the next dream. He is very, very skilled at this.
Cloud Atlas (2004) wraps back on itself in a chiastic structure which is fun to sketch:
The structures of Ghostwritten, The Bone Clocks, and Slade House are unique, but Mitchell displays his maddening, enthralling, wonderful gift in each of them.
Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.