Archaeology of memory

Reading the work of Kazuo Ishiguro is a haunting, unsettling experience.

His characters sift through their memories, memories within memories, tangents, episodes, past glories and relationships. The affect that this produces is of highlighting the fractures, the grains that fall between the thoughts, the missing pieces which do not quite fit with what is remembered, until the edifice is seen for what it is: an edifice constructed in order for us to cope with who we are, who we might be, and what has happened in our past.

Usually writing from the perspective of once influential, older men remembering the heady days of their youth and strength, Ishiguro exposes our faults and frailties, conceits and underlying love and concern. His characters are not bad men. They are normal, everyday, everyman. They are usually living through extraordinary times, in the midst of, verging on, or remembering, worldwide war.

Despite the vicious times, the palpable (yet uncomfortably normal) self-deceit, and the dangerous glow of nostalgia, Ishiguro’s work leaves one with a faint hope, a faint affirmation. That whatever the circumstance, and transcending nation and history, there is hope while the day remains.

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This reflection is based on reading The Remains of the Day, When We Were Orphans, and An Artist of the Floating World.

Filed under: Ishiguro, literature