Posts Tagged ‘Kazuo Ishiguro’

Summer Reading Part 6: Kazuo Ishiguro

September 1, 2010

As hinted in yesterday’s post, the other English writer I read this summer, was Kazuo Ishiguro. Never Let Me Go is his latest novel, although he has since released a collection of five short stories almost long enough to be called novellas. He has a Japanese name and parents, but having moved to England at the age of five, he hardly speaks the language and is an English citizen. The two cultures are not necessarily all that different, sharing an affinity for understatements and tea, reticence to show one’s feelings and, at least traditionally, politeness.

Ishiguro likes to think of himself as an international writer, meaning, I suppose, that he can be understood all over the world. And that is certainly true, but I still have to disagree a bit with Haruki Murakami when he describes Ishiguro’s books in this way:
“In other words, the place could be anywhere, the character could be anybody and the time could be any time. Everything supposed to be real could be unreal, and vice versa. It is a sensation I love and I only receive it when I read his books.” (The Guardian, Saturday 19.February 2005).

Unlike Murakami, I feel that there is in Ishiguro’s language possible to detect an almost super-Englishness, which might be on purpose in those of his novels set in England, but which doesn’t exactly seem to support the claim that the characters could be “anybody“. Everything is either very English or very Japanese, to the point that the novels – and characters – come to represent an aura of nonreality in their very strong national connotations, be it in language, mannerisms or social/cultural mores.

There is, however, nothing wrong or bad about this. Ishiguro might at one time seem more English than Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and Enid Blyton put together, while, when moving his plots abroad, he is suddenly more Japanese than Ozu. I wrote in another post about how Ishiguro by his own admission has learnt more of Japan from the films of Ozu than through any actual experience. Maybe this explains why the Japan of his first two novels seems so recognizable to us in the west; because it is a mediated vision that we have learnt to see in the same way as the author; through film and art. After writing his first two novels in this way, it’s like he played the same trick in presenting Englishness, making it hyper-real, so to say.

However, this is neither here nor there, if you’ll pardon a mediocre pun. I think both his first novels; A Pale View of the Hills and An Artist of the Floating World, are masterpieces. They are very economically told with hardly a superfluous phrase. Perhaps the “twist” ending of A Pale View of the Hills is not quite validated by the foregoing narrative, but I can’t really be sure. Ishiguro has himself said that he didn’t want people to sit with the novel as some sort of crossword puzzle, trying to fit all the pieces. So I shan’t. I am more than satisfied to accept the ambiguities at the end. (The word ambiguity used in relation to novels, often is another word for narrative laziness, but I never felt that in this case.)

I wrote, as mentioned, another post about these books about a year ago, so I’ll move on, in an uncharacteristic fear of repeating myself (too much).

The reason I chose to mention Ishiguro immediately after the post about Magnus Mills, is that it is possible to comment on a number of similarities between the two authors apart from their nationality. Both present literary worlds that at first seem equal or very similar to our “real world”. After a while, though, it becomes clear that there is some flaw in the written world; there is something slightly different; askew. The novels pretend that these flaws are part of normality, that the foreign introduced element is, in fact, imminent and natural to the world, thus making us forget, or masking, that the novel’s worlds are not ours.

To put it in other words, the novels’ different way of seeing the world is made un-different. The illusion of normality negates denial and forces acceptance. (By God, if these sentences were not highfalutin! Pretentious is another word for it…) Anyhow… This acceptance is what creates the unhomely – or estranging – effect of the books, and is something I feel these authors have in common.

In Ishiguro’s novels, the flaw in the world is often created by unreliable narrators, or narrators not seeing the entire picture. In Never Let Me Go, the female narrator sees much less than the entire picture. In Mills’ novels, we find fewer of the unreliable narrators, more of the limited view point. Still, in both authors’ works, the tension created and satisfaction of the read, is for a large part connected to decoding the element that makes their literary worlds different from ours.

In the Ishiguro novels that I have read, this is most clear in When We Were Orphans and Never Let Me Go, but also in his first two novels, the unreliable narrators serve to heighten our uncertainty about what exactly is happening, and whether we can trust the presented world view at all. In Ishiguro’s case, the reader is made to feel smart by this act of decoding. We are not merely following the action or enjoying the precise language, but have to be playing the detective as well. If I should say something negative about Never Let Me Go, it is that I feel the reader is too far ahead of the story, that we learn the story – and about the world in which it is taking place – faster than the narrator. At the end, however, it turns out that this might be on purpose, as even with the whole picture, she just has no way of understanding the full implications of the story we have been told. This actually adds another layer to the tragedy of the novel.

You’ll notice that I try not to say much about what any of these novels are about. The reason is twofold: I don’t want to spoil the reading experience, as there is a mystery connected to the telling of the stories in itself, and secondly that there is such a thing as Wikipedia, where one finds all the summaries one wants. Mind, I often advice against this.

A final thing in regard to the likenesses between Mills and Ishiguro: I think it was while reading Never Let Me Go, that I began to re-evaluate Explorers of the New Century. There are a number of parallels between the two which could be interesting to study. One takes place in green and lush England, while the other in an uninhabitable northern no man‘s land (not to be confused with the island Nomans Land in Massachusetts…), but the subject matter is actually closely related. Were I still a student, I think I could do worse than compare the two. As I think of it, the novels were even released the same year, not that this is particularly meaningful.

There are, however, differences between the two. For one thing, I suspect that Ishiguro is the better author. At least in the sense that his books seem more carefully plotted and less made on the go. With Mills, one doesn’t get the same feeling of every incident having importance for the end result. Rather, it is more of a series of incidents that, while certainly having a cumulative effect, don’t always feel indispensable or not interchangeable. Perhaps I feel this as I am now thoroughly familiar with the typical pattern of a Mills book, and therefore less surprised by yet another example of the absurdity of his portrayed ideological systems.

Also, with Ishiguro, I detect a different kind of pathos behind the carefully composed sentences. There is a more palpable sense of tragedy, a more immediate way of engaging our emotions, even while the characters refuse to do so. Perhaps because the characters refuse to do so.
Never Let Me Go is highly recommended. Both Mills and Ishiguro writes in a very accessible way and should by all rights outsell any Dan Brown. Luckily for us, they also write very well (unlike Mister Brown). May they continue to do so! Ishiguro used to think that a writer had a window of opportunity between one’s 30 and 45 years of age wherein one could write really well. He is now 55.

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After Summer: Reading and Laziness

October 7, 2009

Yes, I have been lax. Summer has gone and autumn done come without this journal having seen any considerable advance. With HBO’s competent miniseries about John Adams still relatively fresh in my mind, I’m tempted to quote Benjamin Franklin’s bon mot that “a life of leisure and a life of laziness are two different things“. I’m afraid that in the matter of keeping up this blog I’ve erred on the side of the latter. All is not lost, though, as I have put my energies, such as they are, to pursuits perhaps equally worthy during this time, the results of which I’ll hopefully see come December or thereabouts. Let that be sufficiently vague. (No, it is not an offspring!)

But enough self-recrimination! Laziness is not what it is if a purpose can be glimpsed. To that end, let’s bring on another quotation that better illuminates how I prefer to view these past hazy days of summer: “Never be entirely idle; but either be reading, or writing, or praying or meditating or endeavouring something for the public good“. Thus, validated by one of my favourite monks, Thomas à Kempis, I can rest assured (bit of a pun there!) that I have not, indeed, been entirely idle.

kempis04One thing I HAVE done during these months is reading. – And writing, supplemented by the occasional meditative moment (which I like to describe as staring emptily into the wall while waiting for a sentence not completely crap to fall down from a place not unlike heaven. If there is prayer involved, it is silent and hidden). As for the public good, well I have voted and not murdered anyone while visiting the local cinema, no mean feat, that. So there, Kempis.

(Kempis is thought to have written the mystic devotional work The Imitation of Christ, in which we learn that “at the Day of Judgement we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done“, a phrase which rather takes the sheen off his former statement about the merits of reading. Kempis, though, was himself an avid reader, to put it mildly, and a writer, praying and meditating and so on, so I suspect that in both cases he talks more about himself and any general validity, then, is merely hoped for. Much like any religion, organized or not.)

All this hullabaloo, and the only purpose of this post is: These are the books I brought with me and read during the summer:

Marilynne Robinson: Housekeeping. I can’t think of many – if any – novelists alive today with Robinson’s command of language, her eye for the perfect sentences. This was her first novel, released in 1980. I had only read her second novel, the wonderful Gilead, from 2004, which deservedly won a Pulitzer. It seems that she has now picked up speed, for her “sequel” to Gilead, Home, was published last year. I plan to read soonish her book of essays, The Death of Adam: Essays on Modern Thought (1998), which, I’m sure, will be a hoot and a half. A rash and probably inexact description of Robinson would be to place her somewhere between Flannery O’ Connor and Harper Lee, both thematically and stylistically. However, that would be lazy, so let’s not do that, shall we?

Knut Hamsun: Mysterier (Mysteries). This was the second (real) novel of Norway’s best author, released two years after the more famous Sult (Hunger). For some reason I had not read it before, and I planned to really like it. It is, of course, well written in the inimitable Hamsun-style, and there are psychological insights in the book that are surprising of its time. And it is actually very entertaining. However, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I would have liked the book better had I read it at a younger age. I found it hard to share the novel’s concerns other than in a very vicarious way, which perhaps is true of all books, though I think not. These days I find that I much prefer Markens Grøde (Growth of the Soil). Even though it is by far a perfect novel, it has a power and a will (dangerous words to use while talking about Hamsun…) and a direction; a goal, something the author seems to need to be saying. It also has plot holes the size of a Frenchman’s ego and severe narrative problems, but these matter less than the mere existence of the work itself. Growth of the Soil insists upon its place in the world much like its protagonist. I haven’t read Hunger in quite a few years, but while reading Mysteries, it struck me that perhaps that book as well will be best appreciated by being read at a younger age than mine. (I liked it a lot when I was 20 or so). Still, these are quibbles, as all the Hamsun books mentioned here are masterpieces of a sort.

nagasakiKazuo Ishiguro: A Pale View of the Hills. I really, really liked this first novel. Having formerly only read An Artist of the Floating World, Ishiguro’s second book (which this novel closest resembles) and When We Were Orphans, I had great hopes for this and was not disappointed. Ishiguro, while having a Japanese name,and having lived in Japan till the age of five, is very much an Englishman, and the Japan he observes in his first two novels is very much a mediated Japan. One gets the feeling that he has studied the films of Yasujiro Ozu with the interest of someone a generation removed from the society and geography that these films represent. As he has added his own literary sensibility to this second hand understanding of Japan, he is able to describe both the society and the results of that society in a way that he maybe could not have accomplished had he lived there himself his entire life. The English reserve and traditional virtues (as seen in Remains of the Day) actually go very well together with the Japan of Ozu.

18651996While these reflections may seem boring, in A pale View of the Hills, they are definitely not. There is an extreme tension in the telling, everything so seemingly mundane and matter of fact, that one comes to suspect that Ishiguro’s narrator is perhaps not all trustworthy. Every little event is thus filled with a kind of dread, as if the masks, not only of the society, but the one worn by the narrator herself, might slip at any moment and the result will not be comforting. As the action takes place in Ishiguro’s birth town of Nagasaki, where the atom bomb had been dropped not that long ago, there is a curious mix of traditional Japanes idyllic scenes and an almost post-acopalyptic landscape. This underlines the tension between tradition and the foreign; the new; the rootless so to say. These are people living in an environment where they have learned that everything might disappear in seconds; what does this mean for the traditionally so stoic Japanese mindset? Rather than say more, I urge everyone to read this small wonderful book.

Haruki Murakami: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. While Ishiguro is an English writer looking to Japan for inspiration – and possibly his “roots” – Murakami is certainly Japanese and looking to the west and particularly to USA. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle was originally a serialised novel, meaning that the author wrote it without having the luxury to go back and change things. This one can certainly see, as there are innumerable plot threads that are never picked up. Lots of scenes seem to be without consequence to the story and this even after the book has been through a kind of editing by the translator, Jay Rubin. Still, it is maybe the most enjoyable book I’ve read this year, and one of the few instances that I’ve not wanted a book to end (This almost never happens. I want most books to end as soon as possible, even the good ones.) as I was having a helluva time with it. In Rubin’s translation, at least, Murakami’s language sounds very polished and elegantly post modern. In fact, I found myself thinking that this is the book that Paul Auster would have written if he’d had any interesting ideas the last 20 years. After having finished it I went straight out and bought 3 more books by Murakami, an author I would have read long ago if I hadn’t been so sceptical to literary fashions and of seeing his books everywhere these last years:

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. A collection of short stories, none of which I seem to be able to recall a mere two months after having read them. I remember I enjoying some of them, but frankly, while they perhaps were my cup of tea, I had screwed up the order and gotten a rather bland bag. The fault is possibly mine, as one should not read a short story collection in just two days.

Norwegian Wood. Murakami himself didn’t want this novel translated, even though it was a sensation in Japan. But as the Norwegian publishers desperately wanted the book released (because of the title), the American publishers produced an English version for the purpose. The novel is not more than passable, but never dull.

Michael Chabon: The Yiddisch Policemen’s Union. I read this immediately after having read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, and possibly that explains the near fury I felt upon reading the first chapters of this. Murakami at his best is indeed a hard act to follow. I’ve liked many of Chabon’s novels, but this one is almost irredeemable. I really can’t explain how something like this can be published. (Actually the publishers almost forced Chabon to publish the book before he felt that it was ready…) The language of the book is amateurish and irritating, the plot never rising above the clichéd nature of the popular fiction it tries to emulate. “The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot”, as Salvador Dali said. There are rumours that the Coen-brothers will make this parody of Noir into a film. I can actually see how The Yiddisch Policemen’s Union can work better as a film than as a novel, but I have my doubts that any medium can save this mess. At least without some serious rewriting.

After some 100 pages I did begin to warm up to the concoction, but not enough by a long shot to forgive its considerable shortcomings. Whereas Murakami’s imagination and elegance of writing made me overlook the holes in his plot, Chabon is just too much of a journeyman to pull the novel off as an anecdotal trifle. He tries to translate Raymond Chandler to a Jewish Alaska (!), and frankly he is no Chandler, not even an Alistair Maclean. In this novel I find that he is not even himself.   I could – and perhaps should – back up this critique with examples from the text and try to formulate just what I disliked so much, but frankly I can’t be bothered. Life’s too short. I do hope, though, that Chabon will be able to redeem himself, as I know that in his best moments he writes popular prose of a high order.

Richard Ellmann: Yeats; The Man and the Masks. This biography of Yeats was originally written in 1948, a mere ten years after the author’s death. It is considered something of a key text in the understanding of Yeats’ life and literary universe. Ellmann later wrote a highly regarded biography of Joyce, which I’ve not read, but the view he presents of Yeats here doesn’t alltogether convince me. While he covers Yeats the Mystic and makes a case for a perpetually insecure man with no fixed identity, I never felt I got to know Yeats The Man, which, after all, is what one comes to a biography for. Perhaps more inexcusable, I didn’t get to know Yeats The Poet. Almost all of Ellmann’s readings seem determined by how he has chosen to perceive Yeats and allows little leeway or room for what I would call the poet’s genius. (I generelly avoid this word like the plague, but will make an exception in Yeats’ case) That is to say, how he managed to write so many good poems that seem timeless and almost universal even though Yeats himself was very much a man of his times and interests (mysticism).

The book, as it was written with important contributions by Yeats’ widow, never seems to dare to be impolite or, well, daring, and the biographical elements as a result end up less interesting than I suspect they could be. I don’t expect or want sensationalism, but this biography seemed almost reductionist. As for the poems, for example the famous but widely misunderstood The Second Coming, Ellmann seems only interested in the gyre of the poem’ first line, as this term is discussed in Yeats’ A Vision and thus is a key term in Yeats’ mysticism. As for what the poem itself might mean, or why it is a great poem, Ellmann has little to nothing to declare. This is a solid biography, but an artist of Yeats’ stature deserves more than solid.