The Remains of the Day

This was the worst book from Ishiguro amongst the ones I have read, but still there is much to like. It took a while to grow on me, about 50 or so pages (unlike never let me go, which I loved immediately), but then it becomes this incredible tale about Stevens’s past. About the dishonesty which he refused to acknowledge in his faith for Darlington, the dedication with which he devoted himself, and in turn, refused to take any decisions by himself. It feels as if his character holds the idea that he was mistaken in its subconscious and yet, it refuses to emerge aside from a few brief glimpses. He shuns his being and never engages in personal relationships, and only really realises this at the end.

I think this story might grow on me, as I grow older, but right now it remains a little more obtuse. One of the things that definitely derailed my enjoyment was the ending, in which Ishiguro spells everything painfully out, and is rather on the face. But I suppose when I am in my twilight years (as if I’ll make it till then), there would be much to look back here.