I'm a big fan of Ishiguro in general, but Remains stands head and shoulders above everything else. I think it has to do with two things:
First, part of what Ishiguro cultivates is an air of unreality, where you're never quite sure what is real or not. Remains certainly has that too in the sense of you're never quite sure what actually happened and what is in Stevens' head; but because the core setting is so vividly banal and straightforward that the sense of unreality works without also creating a sense of queasiness and unease that I sometimes feel when reading Ishiguro's other books. The revelations in Remains strike one like an earthquake on what had felt like solid ground versus some of the other books where they feel more like quicksand in a marsh; still shocking and revelatory but you were kind of expecting something along those lines even if you didn't know quite what it would be.
The second difference is that Remains is so funny as well as heartbreaking. And while most of the humor is wry, some of it is literally laugh out loud funny. This paragraph, in particular, is one of my favorites in all of literature:
"I realize that if one looks at the matter objectively, one has to concede my father lacked various attributes one may normally expect in a great butler. But those same absent attributes, I would argue, are every time those of a superficial and decorative order, attributes that are attractive, no doubt, as icing on the cake, but are not pertaining to what is really essential. I refer to things such as good accent and command of language, general knowledge on wide-ranging topics such as falconing or newt-mating - attributes none of which my father could have boasted..."
"Newt-mating" is such a ridiculously brilliant choice there.
For the most heartbreakingingly unconsummated love, it has to be Remains of the Day.
That is a devastating book. The patience with which it unfolds and the payoff of that patience is astounding.
That'a great way of describing Remains.
I'm a big fan of Ishiguro in general, but Remains stands head and shoulders above everything else. I think it has to do with two things:
First, part of what Ishiguro cultivates is an air of unreality, where you're never quite sure what is real or not. Remains certainly has that too in the sense of you're never quite sure what actually happened and what is in Stevens' head; but because the core setting is so vividly banal and straightforward that the sense of unreality works without also creating a sense of queasiness and unease that I sometimes feel when reading Ishiguro's other books. The revelations in Remains strike one like an earthquake on what had felt like solid ground versus some of the other books where they feel more like quicksand in a marsh; still shocking and revelatory but you were kind of expecting something along those lines even if you didn't know quite what it would be.
The second difference is that Remains is so funny as well as heartbreaking. And while most of the humor is wry, some of it is literally laugh out loud funny. This paragraph, in particular, is one of my favorites in all of literature:
"I realize that if one looks at the matter objectively, one has to concede my father lacked various attributes one may normally expect in a great butler. But those same absent attributes, I would argue, are every time those of a superficial and decorative order, attributes that are attractive, no doubt, as icing on the cake, but are not pertaining to what is really essential. I refer to things such as good accent and command of language, general knowledge on wide-ranging topics such as falconing or newt-mating - attributes none of which my father could have boasted..."
"Newt-mating" is such a ridiculously brilliant choice there.