Never Let Me Go

I've re-read The People's Act of Love twice, but it feels like both more and less. This is the book that shook my already quivering soul (for more perfectly justified hyperbole just click here), but I can never quite remember the plot. Each time I read it, I feel more immersed in it, like that's my real life and this life, the one where I'm typing away at a keyboard, is the fantasy. But I cannot tell you the names of the main characters without a quick Google search to jog my memory. 

Does it matter, a part of me pipes up? I'm not writing an essay on it! Well, not exactly...

My point is that I could read The People's Act of Love over and over and make new discoveries every time (like the plot and the characters' names, you quip), like an entomologist in the depths of the Amazon rainforest (you know, assuming we haven't cut or burnt the entire thing down by the time I finally publish this post).

That kind of constant epiphany was what I was expecting when I started re-reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. After all, any first reading of an Ishiguro is the slow (dare I say glacial) unveiling of a mystery that usually kicks off dominoes of existential questions that leave you reeling. In Never Let Me Go, those dominoes begin with the ethics of human cloning and tick on over in neat rows to what makes one human and deserving of human rights. 

So, on my second reading, I was looking forward to the literary equivalent of knowing winks from the author to me, the kind that make me want to be a better writer. But what I got was a novel where I already knew the ending -- which is, yes, stating the obvious -- and where very very little happens, because that's kind of the point, but that made getting to said ending very tedious. 

Perhaps the real issue is Ishiguro Fatigue. I had just finished reading Klara and the Sun, which covers some of the same ground as Never Let Me Go at a similar pace. The narrator of Klara and the Sun is a kind of android known as an AF (Artificial Friend), which as the name suggests is usually purchased as a companion for children. Her otherness allows for plenty of opportunities for reflection on a world both familiar and unfamiliar, but I confess that at points I was bored.

Given that, why return to the scene of, well, not the same crime, but a similar one? I rarely re-read books, there being so many books that I want to read that the list may as well be infinite. But I was looking for the equivalent of a warm duvet on cold rainy night; I was looking for comfort and I was sure I'd find it in Never Let Me Go.

I'm being hard on good ol' Ishiguro. Both Never Let Me Go and The Remains of the Day are great novels -- the best adjective I can think of is 'haunting'. But I made the mistake of going back to the haunted house in the daylight, when things generally look less fantastical and more ... previously lived in. If you haven't read them, do so. Now. If you already have, Klara and the Sun should be your next read -- but be forewarned: this is a slow stroll rather than a fast-paced adventure.

The Baby with the Bathtub

I have Another Theory. This one is called the Baby with the Bathtub. Have you ever had a favourite author whose writing style suddenly, and frustratingly, changes? My theory is that the author has received so much negative feedback (fools!) that it has eclipsed the positive reviews. The author is shaken; they rethink their entire writing process and, whoops, out goes the baby with the bathtub.

I have evidence to support my claim. Of course. Who do you think you're dealing with here? Do you think I just start writing without any idea of where I am going? (Don't answer that.)

First, there is David Mitchell, who penned number9dream, Ghostwritten and of course Cloud Atlas, one of my favourite novels, and then switched tempo by writing The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. Every time I read a 'Mitchell', I'm consumed by jealousy; he plays with genre and convention, and he does it in a way that doesn't make me roll my eyes because I know what he's doing and he knows I know what he's doing and it's all so meta. (David Eggers, I'm deliberately not looking at you.)

Jacob de Zoet is also, according to the experts, a masterpiece of genre -- but it's just one genre and it's possibly the most boring one: historical fiction. To add insult to injury, the entire story is told in chronological order, with no literary sleight of hand. Like, at all. It may be a 'masterpiece', but it's no CloudAtlas.

Second, there is Jonathan Safran Foer. I could hear the sigh as I typed his name, but give me a chance. Is his writing a bit sanctimonious? Yes. Is it meta and eyeroll-inducing? Yes and yes. But does he also have a way with words that is like real magic? The answer is obviously yes. Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close are both beautifully written masterpieces woven from words and they stick with me still. 

And then he wrote Here I Am. It's longer than his other books -- perhaps three times longer -- and rather than focusing on one character, tells the story of a Jewish family living in contemporary Washington, DC. It's mundane, rather than magic, although there are moments that sparkle; unrelentingly so. Some reviews suggest that the book is semi-autobiographical and perhaps that's why the magic's missing. It's not terrible, but the bathtub's empty.

So I only have two authors in my arsenal of evidence, but I think I've proven my point. While terribly named, my Baby with the Bathtub theory holds water (har har). Case closed.