Ishiguro/Ishiguro/Ishiguro/Ishiguro

This is going to get really long, but I've been writing a lot recently about Kazuo Ishiguro's work, and I thought I would put my thoughts about the different novels on here for commentary. It's mostly about Never Let Me Go and When We Were Orphans, with healthy doses of An Artist of the Floating World and The Remains of the Day thrown in.

On Never Let Me Go:
Originally I was a little bit leery of Never Let Me Go. I had read Ishiguro's famous The Remains of the Day and his slightly less-famous An Artist of the Floating World, both of which I thought were masterful studies of regret and the loneliness of social hierarchies, of what happens to people who are trained and/or develop into a very specific social niche or pattern of behaviors, and who are then left behind by a changing world where that niche is no longer valued or even acceptable. The delicacy of the language and the perfection of the narrative voice and careful structure of the plot were all breathtaking. Nevertheless, I have to admit that I got a little dubious when I heard that Ishiguro's new book was a kind of semi-scifi dystopian novel. It was getting a lot of attention because it features cloning, that medical-ethics buzzword on the tips of everyone's tongues. Yes, it was snobbish to assume that "current events" and "vaguely science-fiction plot" equaled "not so timeless as his other novels," but what can I say? I'm a snob.

And now I'm a humbled snob, because Never Let Me Go is fantastic. Ishiguro's characteristically restrained understatement is a brilliant counterpoint to the potentially over-the-top plot line. It makes the dystopianism all the more believable, because, as we've all been taught by Pink Floyd via that blowhard Thoreau, "hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way," and Ishiguro points out that it would still be the English way even if a complex system of forced organ donation were integrated into British society.

But this was not a novel "about" a scary dystopian future. It's not a warning about what might be, not a tirade about the dangerous waters exposed by recent advances in medical science. Or, if it is these things, being so is not its primary aim. I'm really glad it wasn't the first Ishiguro novel I read, because having The Remains of the Day and Artist of the Floating World under my belt made me realize that the three novels share a concern about individuals who are used by society, who are forced or cajoled into surrendering their own fulfillment in order to serve others' needs, whether that be through a lifetime of faithful service, indoctrinated traditionalism, or being required to give up your vital organs so that someone else can live. All three novels explore the darker side of social hierarchies, of what is gained and lost by people who become invested in the myths of systems that may not be to their best interests. But all three also make the point that in order to confront the negative or oppressive aspects of a social system, people also have to compromise the images of beauty and understanding to which they have clung all their lives. In the case of The Remains of the Day, the butler Stevens is heavily invested in the value of the upper-class British lifestyle and his own role within it, and he is an old man before he is able to admit his regrets or even contemplate the possibility of a different life. An Artist of the Floating World has a protagonist whose memories of coming of age as an artist are inextricably bound with the rise of militant nationalism and oppression in Japan. In Never Let Me Go, young people whose lives are also drawing to an end have to choose between believing in the idyllic childhoods they enjoyed at a prestigious boarding school, and confronting the fact that during those childhoods they were objects of scorn and fear for most people, and also being manipulated for political purposes.

The point I'm trying to make by drawing these connections between Ishiguro's novels is that Never Let Me Go is a metaphorical comment about current social hierarchies, or perhaps about the innate nature of human social hierarchies, rather than a warning about what might or might not happen at some point in the future. In every case, individuals are scarred by the ways in which society uses them as a tool rather than a sentient being, even while they also gain meaning and relevance from being so used. An Artist of the Floating World is especially interesting in this regard, since the manner in which the main character becomes a pawn of Japanese militarism takes place within a narrative of the independent artist, rebelling against parents and teachers to strike out in his own artistic direction - not a type of person that one expects to end up serving the entrenched power structures. Even so, Ono struggles between regret and self-justification about the role that he and his art have played in the leadup to the second World War, and has to reassess his place in a changing society.

Never Let Me Go takes the theme of self-examination within the larger societal context to the next level; since the main characters are facing imminent death and have no children or family members that will be left behind (as in An Artist of the Floating World), there is no easy answer to the question "Why bother to face the truth about this culture or our role within it?" There is no question that the easier path is to sink into an abyss of nostalgia, remembering happy days rather than dwelling on harsh realities. Take away the usual motivating factors for facing hard truths (it will allow you to lead a better, more honest life, or make a better life for those you love), and the novel becomes a fascinating meditation on the dilemma of seeking out the truth, versus remaining in blissful ignorance. Some characters choose one path, and others choose the other; I was left at the end of the novel asking myself if either group was really better off. My whole being rebels against the idea that striving for the right is useless because we're all going to die anyway, and I think that Ishiguro would object to this idea as well, but he definitely takes his reader through a hard and unflinching look at why one ought to search out the truth, when the usual answers don't apply.

I also think the layers of social knowledge and naivete in Ishiguro's novels are fascinating. They mostly deal with people who are operating below the surface, behind the scenes: a butler, with his intimate knowledge of how to keep a huge upper-class household in top working order; an artist, creating propaganda that bolsters a gathering political storm; a group of young people who belong to the shunned "donor" class, about whom regular citizens know very little but on whom they depend for replacement organs. You would think that each of these people would be possessed of inside information, that they could give us a glimpse behind the scenes, into the clockwork that makes society tick. And to a certain extent this is true. But to a greater extent, reading the books makes me realize that to people in their situation, the world I consider normal is "behind the scenes," and knowing more about their own realm of influence only means that there are other aspects of life about which they are naive. So, for example, the donors know very little about the prevailing attitudes towards them in the outside world, just as the English butler has trouble conceiving of a life not selflessly dedicated to service. It's an interesting revelation, that absolute knowledge resides in no one person, but is a mosaic of (often conflicting) experiences from across the social spectrum.

All of this is more fun to read than I'm communicating. Ishiguro has an amazing ability to maintain complete control of his narrative at all times, making it all seem breezily simple while juggling complicated past-and-present plots and telling the story from a very subjective, sometimes unreliable first-person perspective which never falters in its consistency. I can only imagine that for anyone who appreciates the art of novel-writing, the experience of reading one of his books is just as breathtaking as it is for me.

On When We Were Orphans:

I'm on a major Ishiguro bender. Since I wrote a few weeks ago about his newest novel, Never Let Me Go, my enthusiasm has only grown; in fact, I just finished When We Were Orphans, which was every bit as intriguing as the other three of his I've read (Never Let Me Go, The Remains of the Day and An Artist of the Floating World).

As always, the act of narration takes front and center position in When We Were Orphans - I think Ishiguro has got to be the master of using the unreliable (or at least highly subjective) narrator to great effect. In The Remains of the Day there are some scenes that truly take the breath away with their ability to juggle multiple subjectivities while still telling a story that, while multi-layered, is riveting on its most basic level as well. So, for example, there is a scene in which Miss Kenton, the semi-impetuous housekeeper, comes to "bother" Stevens in his study while he's reading a novel, and there is a moment of acute sexual tension between them, except that Stevens (the first-person voice) both refuses to acknowledge such things as "sexuality" to his readers, and may not even understand himself the attraction he felt. In addition, the entire episode is told in flashback, with the past Stevens holding a different set of attitudes and opinions toward the events than the present Stevens. There is also a plotline in the present day which is influencing the moods of Stevens the narrator, and past embarrassment about the novel in question, which adds a certain huffiness to the demeanor of the man, both past and present. Through all of these prismatic narrative challenges, Ishiguro manages to tell a story that is elegant and affecting, as well as communicating, through the reticent and muddled eyes of Stevens, a clear portrait of Miss Kenton's motivations and emotions. No mean feat, obviously.

In When We Were Orphans, Ishiguro's trademark unreliable narrator is used to excellent advantage in the way that the novel plays off of the detective genre, creating an amazing experience for the reader by turning the whole idea of a whodunit on its head. Usually, the detective in any given mystery novel is the ultimate word in veracity: if he or she says it, you can believe it. Extreme examples of this phenomenon are many of Sherlock Holmes' cases, in which Holmes professes to know the solution to the case before he and Watson even start investigating - he's more just trying to tie up a few loose ends, and then he'll reveal everything to us.

But Christopher Banks, the ostensibly great detective in Ishiguro's novel, is wildly unreliable, constantly overlooking the obvious, insisting on the ludicrous, and attempting to paint a picture of himself that's at odds with the memories of seemingly every person he runs across in the course of the novel. Over and over, although he insists on his own social acumen, he meets old acquaintances and classmates who remember him as "a miserable loner" or "an odd duck" - claims to which he takes startled exception ("You must have me confused with someone else, old chap. I was always one for mucking in."). Likewise, when he remembers or encounters anyone who expresses compassion about his orphanhood (his parents are kidnapped when he is a child), he reacts with brusque annoyance.

These character quirks are rendered mysterious rather than absurd or amusing, by the fact that there are also people who do seem to take Banks seriously - he's not simply a deluded maniac believing himself to be a great detective. There are instances that seem to corroborate almost positively certain claims that Banks makes at one time or another, and other passages where he does seem genuinely perceptive and honest, balancing out his more outlandish moments. The interplay between these elements leaves the reader floating along on a superbly-crafted bed of quicksand, always unsure quite what to believe, which events Banks has reported accurately, and why or in what ways he has been inaccurate. Banks' own frustrated description of the citizens of Shanghai could equally well be a description of his own narrative style:

"People here seem determined at every opportunity to block one's view. No sooner has one entered a room or stepped out of a car than someone or other will have smilingly placed himself right within one's line of vision, preventing the most basic perusal of one's surroundings. Often as not, the offending person is one's very host or guide of that moment..."

Generally, murder mysteries are only interesting until the detective reveals the solution, pointed out carefully by all the clues. After that, all the ends have been tied up neatly and the reader is no longer held to the story. But in this case, the novel remains fascinating long after finishing it, because the reader is never quite sure what actually happened, what motivated the characters, or, more importantly for the book itself, the larger ramifications of those events. Not that this uncertainty is ever down to poor writing or simple lack of character development - far from it. Instead, it is as if the possible realities of Banks' life are refracted through the prism of his perception, and Ishiguro somehow manages to communicate many interwoven possibilities via one impressive narration, leaving the reader to draw her own conclusions or simply wander forever among the potential choices.

Like Ishiguro's other novels, When We Were Orphans has much to say about British and Japanese imperialism - in this case, the British occupation and Japanese invasion of Shanghai and mainland China in the first half of the twentieth century. Being far from an expert on the history of foreign aggression in eastern China, I can't break down the political allegory in any detail, but I do think that Ishiguro paints a brilliant portrait of the surreal self-involvement of the occupying British society, still putting on dinner parties and hosting events while a war rages around them. Christopher Banks' own insistence that finally "solving the case" of his parents' disappearance will somehow bring an end to the Sino-Japanese conflict is an excellent metaphor for the egregiously inflated self-importance of the declining British Empire. And the scene in which Banks stumbles upon his childhood home, now almost unrecognizable and occupied by a Chinese family who have spent years dreading his return, is a poignant and bizarre reminder of the literal effects of an "occupying force." But not only do these scenes make for fascinating political commentary; they are also gripping and beautifully told on a literal level, and the atmospheric prose contributes to a craftsmanly web of suspense surrounding Banks' narration.

When We Were Orphans is what I always wanted mystery novels to be: intriguing, insightful, ambiguous, atmospheric and amazingly well-written, ending with some ends tied in surprising places, and some still dangling enticingly in the reader's mind. I've heard that the next Ishiguro novel on my shelf, The Unconsoled, takes ambiguity and strangeness to a whole other level, and I'm delighted at the prospect of continuing and expanding my Ishigurophilia. I'm sure y'all will hear about it when I do.

I have been an Ishiguro fan for a long time. I have, and have read, all of his novels, and your insights are the best I have seen. You really have captured the skill of Ishiguro as a writer and as a observer of life and society. I am inspired to go back and re-read him. You are in for a treat with The Unconsoled which truly does take ambiguity and strangeness to a whole new level; it is like a 600 page dream sequence with all the temporal and spatial disconnects that one experiences, and simply accepts, in dreams as the narrative thread develops.

Oh goody! The Unconsoled is next on my list! Thanks for the compliments.

I have not yet read any Ishiguro (thought I did see the film of Remains of the Day, which was stunning), so I now have 5 more books on my must-read list. Do you know what order Ishiguro wrote these in? Your knowledge and appreciation of them is so deep that I wonder whether you can see any progression from one novel to the next in his ideas or themes, similar to the way berthirsch suggested regarding Cormac McCarthy's novels.

I also agree that the movie, Remains of the Day was very well done. So often, I find I am disappointed with the film version of books, especially books I have enjoyed, and I wondered about the filmaker being able to convey the complex layering of Ishiguro's style, but the acting was superb and I thought it was a very good rendition.

I know your list of to-read keeps growing all the time. This is an occupational hazard for devotees of reading, and groups like this one feed the frenzy. But I do think you owe it to yourself to get to know Ishiguro, and Emily's wonderful discussion already gives you a great framework. I would start with Artist of the Floating World and Remains of the Day.

Yeah, the film of Remains of the Day was amazing. Even though I had never seen it when I first read the novel, I kept thinking how perfect the character of Stevens would be as a role for Anthony Hopkins - and lo and behold, it was! One of the best adaptations I've seen, I think.

Re: margad's other question, An Artist of the Floating World is the first novel of Ishiguro's that I've read (I haven't read his earliest, A Pale View of Hills), followed by The Remains of the Day, When We Were Orphans and finally Never Let Me Go. I think that the first two of these are linked very heavily, almost to the point where they could be read as two different takes on the same story - as told from the Japanese middle-class and British upper-tier servant class. There are similar themes of aging men looking back on WWII and their larger lives with a mixture of defensiveness, bemusement and heavy regret; of individuals invested in rigidly traditional societies who come to question that investment. Also the idea of a changing culture that is passing its old citizens by.

When We Were Orphans and Never Let Me Go also share some of these features (people looking back on their lives, questioning their cultures, coming to terms with the past, getting made use of by the larger society), but they also have an added level of...not exactly complexity, but...maybe interest, or texture...because they're both playing off of genre forms (detective novel and sci-fi). I'm looking forward to The Unconsoled because (among other reasons) I've heard it talked about as a kind of bridge between the earlier pair of novels and the later pair (that I've read). John, would you agree with that? And have you read A Pale View of Hills?

Emily, your comment on the themes of aging men looking back on their lives in rigidly traditional societies that are changing, passing their old citizens by, reminded me of Marai's novel Embers. A major difference is that the elderly military man who was the protagonist in Embers never questioned the rightness of the old ways. But the reader does.

I also forgot to mention, earlier, how much I love novels with unreliable narrators! Embers fits in this category, too.

I agree with your characterizations of Ishiguro's novels, and though I hadn't thought of it before, I agree that you could see The Unconsoled as a bridge between styles. The Unconsoled was such a break, so very different from what I'd read earlier by Ishiguro, that I got bogged down in it at one point, but I stuck with it and was glad that I did. I have read A Pale View fo the Hills, but it is so long ago (about 20 years!) that I have forgotten it. I just got it down off the shelf. The blurb on the back talks about Etsuko, a Japanese widow living in England who is left to face her memories after her daughter's suicide. She is transported back to Nagasaki where she recalls the struggles of her family and friends to rebuild their lives after the war (ah...speak, memory (with apologies to Nabokov) snippets are coming back as I write). It is desribed as "past and present become fused in a haunting narrative of disturbing poignancy". Sounds like vintage Ishiguro...sigh...another one for the re-read pile! I think re-reading it with your insights in mind will enhance the pleasure the second time around.

It's interesting that his first and most recent novels feature female protagonists sandwiching four novels' worth of male protagonists. I don't really know where to go with that...just an observation.

Margad, I should check out Embers. I read a bit of the Embers/Gilead thread although I've not read either of those books, and my interest was piqued.

Re: Merchant&Ivory/Ishiguro, he apparently wrote the screenplay for their recent film "The White Countess," set (like When We Were Orphans) in Shanghai prior to WWII. I'd be interested to see it, given what an amazing job they did with The Remains of the Day.

I've only read two of Ishiguro's books (When We Were Orphans, The Remains of the Day) and it's amazing how that unreliable narrator can be used so masterfully in both, but I could still have such wildly divergent opinions on the novels.

I should probably preface this by saying that when books are told from the first person, unless I can find something sympathetic about the protagonist, there's no way I'm enjoying the book. For instance, I loved Atonement because even though Briony was one of the most self-involved, self-important, destructive characters ever, there was something to connect to and be sympathetic towards. On the flip side I was one of maybe five high schoolers in the country that hated The Catcher in the Rye because I could find nothing redeeming about Holden.

Stevens and Christopher Banks are very similar characters in some respects: uber-proper British gentlemen of the interwar years who believed in the greatness and importance of Britain (specifically, a certain class of Britons) so thoroughly, that they are blind to Britain's (and the world's) descent into catastrophe. But while I could feel compassion for Stevens realizing the "great gentleman" he served was nothing but a well-meaning but delusional amateur who was beyond out of his league, I couldn't barely control the urge to punch Christopher out.

The scene in particular that almost made me give up on Orphans (not because of Ishiguro's writing, which was top notch), was the one in the warren with the Chinese officers. Here this soldier is trying to protect one of his country's last strongholds with limited manpower and yet has to deal with the petulant whining of this overgrown manchild that based on the word of a junkie ex-cop he needs men to find his parents NOW. I know this is the point, which Emily_Morine outlined so eloquently, but my reaction to that scene was one of visceral revulsion.

I find it interesting that after Christopher Banks finally realizes that his parents aren't in that house that the epilogue has to jump ahead so many years (was it 20 years? I'm blanking on that fact) to bring final resolution. Weirdly, as much as I hated Christopher, I almost wish that Ishiguro wrote something about those intervening years about how Banks "lost his illusions" or whatnot. That could almost be a book in and of itself.

I didn't find The Catcher in the Rye especially interesting either. Holden seemed annoying to me - immature despite his sense of self-importance. I think the novel mainly appeals to boys rather than girls, who are less inclined to misbehave just for the sake of asserting their independence by misbehaving. I hope I'm remembering the flavor of the novel correctly - it's been many years since I read it. I really loved the Franny & Zooey stories, though. In those, the male characters were more mature, and Franny was the confused adolescent. In Atonement, Briony was self-involved in a very authentically female way. Reading the book made me remember all the painful awkwardness of my own teenage years. Quite an accomplishment for a male author!

I haven't read any of Ishiguro's novels yet, but am planning to start with An Artist of the Floating World.

I love Catcher in the Rye just for the tightly controlled prose that seems to steer the narrative so effortlessly, yet never loses sight for a moment of where it's going. Salinger is such a treat to read for me because his ear for any character's "voice" never falters, and I walk around with the Caulfield or Glass style of narration stuck in my head. :) But for me personally, enjoyment of most novels doesn't hinge on liking the protagonist - in fact, many of my favorites have unlikeable or at least ambiguous narrators. Honestly, though, I think I could happily devour an infomercial script written by Salinger (or Ishiguro, for that matter).

I relate to your frustration about that scene with the Chinese general. It was definitely hard to take, although I was so delighted with the surreal quality of the scene and Christopher's twisted view of the situation that I could overlook it. I have had the experience you describe with other novels, though. I had to put down Bastard Out of Carolina because the character of Anney was so frustrating to me - and she wasn't even the narrator!

Here's another Yay vote for Salinger's wonderful telling of the story of a not very likeable kid. In my opinion Catcher is a genuine masterpiece, now that I have reread it at a much more advanced age.

How many unreliable narrator stories can you write before it becomes schtick? For me, it was 2. I loved Remains & Artist and from then on I've just thought, "haven't I read this before?" Sorry.

Enjoy!

Margad: If you liked Embers, I think you would like the Radetsky March by Joseph Roth. it is also about an aging military gentleman looking back on his life, and watching the decline of the Austro-Hungarian empire. See also The Sleepwalkers by Hermann Broch for the same reason.

I haven't read any of Ishiguro, except for the opening pages of The Unconsoled. The dry humor of the conversation with the porter captivated me completely. Wonderful!

I actually wasn't that crazy about Embers while I was reading it or immediately afterward. I always like to feel sympathy for the main character, and the General stood for everything I dislike in people - self-centered, pompous, unable to see anything from another person's perspective. However, it's one of those books that grew on me later. That theme of the dying world always resonates for me. Thanks for the recommendations.

"How many unreliable narrator stories can you write before it becomes schtick?"

I TOTALLY get this & understand why you would feel that way. I kept expecting to, as there are so many obvious parallels among Ishiguro's works, but it hasn't happened yet (for me).

First LT post on my newly-repaired computer, complete with fresh hard drive! Let's see if it gives me a new perspective as well...