Nocturnes--Kazuo Ishiguro
Don't expect deep, respectful, lambent, and glowing analyses of Ishiguro's writing or of this book, or for that matter any book in particular. For me the first and most important criterion for evaluating a book is "Did I enjoy it?" In the case of Nocturnes, the answer is an emphatic YES!
But first, before I get into why, some quibbles and some whining. And, let me tell you, these are earth-shattering points. First and most important, Ishiguro, a writer living in England manages to misuse the word "nauseous." The British are renowned for being the only ones who use it correctly to mean, "causing nausea." Ishiguro uses it to mean "nauseated." 5 points off (or maybe not, depending on the dictionary you use.) Secondly, some, if not many of the characters are whiny, pussilanimous, petty, self-centered, auto-trouble-makers, who end up making the world a lot less enjoyable for everyone. (We don't know any real people like that.)
Now that the MAJOR flaws have been discussed in all the detail they deserve, the high points. A book of five longish short stories about music, musicians, and relationships. Of course the critics laud Ishiguro as our greatest writer of loss and its concomitant sorrow. But what I saw here is more about how very stupid people can be when it comes to finding solutions to their problems. For example, the beleaguered singer of the first story, attempting to make his comeback decides that the only way to do so is to make some splashes in the society pages. He proceeds to do so and so manufactures his own loss. The hero of "Nocturnes" allows himself to be convinced that plastic surgery is actually all he needs to forward his own career. Whether or not it is forwarded, he leaves himself substantially behind in order to get ahead.
Ishiguro writes well about the lies people tell themselves without even realizing that they are lies. He makes plausible all of the little implausibilities that are so transparent when standing on the outside looking in. And so he comments on our loss--how it is a product of our own wayward notions, our own faulty dreams, our own selfishness.
It's hard to feel sorry for any of those who inflict these wounds on themselves. But the wreckage these people manage to inflict on those around them is truly a source of sorrow. And the blindness with which all of us pursue self-destructive ends is brought home to us in each of these stories. Perhaps then there is a little sorrow for our own foolishness, manifested most often in our own selfishness.
Beautifully written and so compelling reading.
***** Highly recommended
But first, before I get into why, some quibbles and some whining. And, let me tell you, these are earth-shattering points. First and most important, Ishiguro, a writer living in England manages to misuse the word "nauseous." The British are renowned for being the only ones who use it correctly to mean, "causing nausea." Ishiguro uses it to mean "nauseated." 5 points off (or maybe not, depending on the dictionary you use.) Secondly, some, if not many of the characters are whiny, pussilanimous, petty, self-centered, auto-trouble-makers, who end up making the world a lot less enjoyable for everyone. (We don't know any real people like that.)
Now that the MAJOR flaws have been discussed in all the detail they deserve, the high points. A book of five longish short stories about music, musicians, and relationships. Of course the critics laud Ishiguro as our greatest writer of loss and its concomitant sorrow. But what I saw here is more about how very stupid people can be when it comes to finding solutions to their problems. For example, the beleaguered singer of the first story, attempting to make his comeback decides that the only way to do so is to make some splashes in the society pages. He proceeds to do so and so manufactures his own loss. The hero of "Nocturnes" allows himself to be convinced that plastic surgery is actually all he needs to forward his own career. Whether or not it is forwarded, he leaves himself substantially behind in order to get ahead.
Ishiguro writes well about the lies people tell themselves without even realizing that they are lies. He makes plausible all of the little implausibilities that are so transparent when standing on the outside looking in. And so he comments on our loss--how it is a product of our own wayward notions, our own faulty dreams, our own selfishness.
It's hard to feel sorry for any of those who inflict these wounds on themselves. But the wreckage these people manage to inflict on those around them is truly a source of sorrow. And the blindness with which all of us pursue self-destructive ends is brought home to us in each of these stories. Perhaps then there is a little sorrow for our own foolishness, manifested most often in our own selfishness.
Beautifully written and so compelling reading.
***** Highly recommended
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