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.