It’s been awhile since I’ve been able to smile after finishing a coming-of-age story, as there are only so many scenes of sadistic teachers, sticky porn mags and sensitive introspection a man can handle. So I met recommendations for David Mitchell’s new one, (he received mucho British praise for Cloud Atlas and most critics called this new one an interim frolic between grand statements) with shrugs and sidelong glances and what else is on the shelf. Well, Black Swan Green is the warm and smart and utterly charming tale of one thirteen-year old boy who stammers, which sounds like a premise that would have me running for the magazine racks. Shockingly, Mitchell gives the young lad a real voice, and one you actually enjoy settling in with for hours at a sit. He’s humble and fanciful and lusty and sharp. He’s a good kid fighting the good fight against school bullies, a thoughtful young man who escapes the Hangman that constricts his throat by writing poetry. He’s also the son of parents whose marriage is falling apart amidst the backdrop of early 80’s England, with Falklands hysteria and The Human League. Mitchell delivers one compelling and fully realized scene after the next, and those surrounding voices complement our hero’s and bring that time period flying off the pages of English new wave history. I hope he does a sequel just so he can sneak Maradona’s Hand of God in there. Ain’t no great revelations here. Just the enjoyment that comes from good storytelling. And after the nose-hair pulling torture of Norman Rush’s Mating, pleasure in fiction never read so good.