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Kazuo Ishiguro

Ishiguro writes about people who keep their feelings just under the surface, and the sentences are calm enough that the ache arrives slowly. Start with «The Remains of the Day», where a butler's motoring holiday becomes a reckoning with duty and all he never said, or «Never Let Me Go», in which a carer looks back on her boarding-school childhood and the two friends she has loved since. Both reward patience and leave you thinking about restraint, loyalty and what gets left unsaid.

Feels like tenderness, memory and melancholy.

Start with Klara and the Sun.

Klara’s vision sometimes breaks into grids, a device Ishiguro uses to remind us that her way of seeing is not ours.

A mother’s suspicion that love may be a superstition we haven’t outgrown.

I think I hate Capaldi because deep down I suspect he may be right. That what he claims is true. That science has now proved beyond doubt there’s nothing so unique about my daughter, nothing there our modern tools can’t excavate, copy, transfer. That people have been living with one another all this time, centuries, loving and hating each other, and all on a mistaken premise. A kind of superstition we kept going while we didn’t know better.
Excerpt from Klara and the Sun, Kazuo Ishiguro, Alfred A. Knopf 2021. Quoted for discovery. Source Rights & removals

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