I bought David Mitchell's 2014 novel, The Bone Clocks, because I needed something to read and the New York Times not only included it in its 2014 list of notable books, but also called it a "head-spinning flight" and mentioned "other dimensions." It seemed like a good way to get away with reading something otherworldly and fantastic and yet still be reading something for grown-ups. With his wonderful color and ever-changing points of view, Mitchell taught me, delighted me, frustrated me like hell and totally drew me in.

From The Bone Clocks, by David Mitchell

A roaring, percussive KA-BOOOOOOOOOMMM ... fills the Chapel. Constantin falls to the floor, as do the others. I-in-Holly stare up at the crack, terror transmuting into hope, then a savage joy as an uprooting, tearing, steel-hull-on-a-reef noise howls louder, and the hairline crack becomes a black line zigzagging down the north roof to the back of the icon. Slowly, the sickening sound dies away, but it leaves behind a heavily pregnant threat of more ... from where I-in-Holly am crouching I see the halo-shaped gnostic serpent swing, then drop. It smashes like a thousand dinner plates, fragments dashing and smattering across the stone floor, like ten thousand little living fleeing beings.