One of the least frequent reasons we grab the spine of a book while rummaging through shelves of either a library or a bookstore is the sole sight of the title. Now this may seem a bit strange but at first glance only. Most of the time our borrowings and purchases take place due to previous recommendations, for the sake of what we have just read or simply because we overheard some stray words of approval towards this, that, or the other novel during the already forgotten circumstances of sheer randomness. Yet there are even rarer occasions when not only does the contingency play first fiddle but is also accompanied by the overtone of an undeliberate and plausible mysteriousness lying behind the cover of a book whose equally unintentional and enigmatic indicator is the title itself. Personally, I have been put under the spell of the above phenomenon only three times, two of which had their form of bizarreness fuelled even more by odd connotations with the days of the week – The Man Who Was Thursday by Chesterton and Monday begins on Saturday by Strugatsky Brothers. When we add another eeriness to this already spooky accumulation of characteristics, in the guise of an ability to make up hidden oppositions to proverbs and adages (I may be getting ahead of myself now but here the one “the last straw that broke the camel’s back” turns into “the first straw that healed the camel’s back”…), only then do we end up in front of the third case, the strangest without a doubt for it sounds seemingly dull and leaves an immediate impression of a pretentious melancholy dispenser. That is precisely what we are facing when reading the inscription “The Remains of the Day” printed on a sleeve. But what are we to face if we actually open the book?

Content-wise, Ishiguro’s third novel centers around a two-paced story of a middle-aged butler – Mr. Stevens – who has recently experienced minor slips and omissions while performing his duties. He decides under the influence of his current employer to kill two birds with one stone: take a short leave by undertaking a trip to Cornwall and meet with his former coworker, a housekeeper Miss Kenton. Since the woman has expressed in a few passages of the letter she had sent earlier the willingness to come back to the Darlington Hall – her former place of employment – Mr. Stevens, after having thoroughly scrutinized the issue of impediments of his work routine and having come to the conclusion that they must have been caused by the understaffing, sets out in his employer’s Ford on a journey which will soon prove to be an exceptionally solid opportunity to reminisce the mornings, the noons and the afternoons of his bygone days as a butler.

The Remains of the Day floats gracefully and without any hectic haste along a two-way path: the trail of Mr. Stevens’ recollections and the second track which somehow stems out of the former – the butler’s actual travel route throughout southwestern England. The main constituent of the narrative is the pattern of reminiscences. It lays the foundations of the protagonist’s worldview which, although expressed extremely elaborately, elopes from the eloquence of an intrepid intellectual. Frankly, thank god it does, for our narrator is a butler after all – indeed, as refined and sophisticated as one can only be – not a thinker and the very second we would hear a profundity of a philosophical gravity coming out of his mouth, he would immediately lose his credibility as a character and make us cringe to death. Nevertheless, he provides us with the intriguing notion of what qualities make a great butler and enables us to observe his maturation as a head of servants at the Darlington Hall which coincides with the death of his father, an ex-butler himself who has been working under his son for quite a while. Not to mention a real treat: a sneak peek at how the British political elite has been led by the nose for the whole second half of the 1930’s by the Germans (one of Lord Darlington’s then most prominent guests during occasional meetings held behind closed doors was the German Ambassador to the United Kingdom and the latter Reich Minister of Foreign Affairs Joachim von Ribbentrop).

The second way is marked with a mere physical presence of Mr. Stevens driving the Ford to meet Miss Kenton – now Mrs. Benn – who is currently living in Little Compton, Cornwall. It serves the purpose as a spur which takes shape of such banal trifles like e.g., a view from a gable, a rain lashing at the windowpanes or the act of driving a car. With remarkable ease they relocate us then to the first path of Mr. Stevens’ recollections and memories. However, it is only by means of these very reminiscences and how they are woven by Ishiguro that the real magic of the novel materializes itself before our eyes and binds us to reach out for exquisite intricacies which should be, instinctively speaking, as ethereal as a dream pop song reverberating lazily as a vaporish soundtrack to a hazy scene full of slow dolly shots and tiring long takes. But miraculously they are not. What are these exquisite intricacies, then?

They revolve around a certain meta-bookish “center of gravity” which, in spite of its highly intuitive presence and discernibleness, resembles the one that powers and constitutes the astounding intensity of avant-garde novels (or books which are considered as ones). Instead of floating beyond conceivability and inconceivability of language, without putting on a splendid array of masks to half-hide and cover countless faces of letters and avoiding another odd-shaped facet on the gem called Trailblazing Literature, Ishiguro’s novel still leaves us riveted to these tempting levels of self-iteration although in this instance their subtly skulking alcove seems to be situated in a room called “unstandardized standard”. “Standard” because it conveys the classical “going-on” mode of letters to present themselves as means of causes and effects, of reasons and aftermaths, of scenes that simply show everything there is to be depicted for this and no other bedazzling purpose only. Yet it stands out in the unstandardized way, quite paradoxically, thanks to its steadiness and regularity which somehow accretes into a remarkably vivid, palpable rootedness, a thing almost unthinkable in this transcendental environment. So there it is and not after many a page we descend into the heart of its matter – the nucleus of “could-have-been-ness”.

This surprisingly tangible though highly inexpressible delicacy of the book hews and hones us in a delightfully unoppressive way into the shape of a genuine unassuming reflectiveness, bathed gently in a fragrant extract of consuming yet good-natured melancholy (not the phoney one which I feared would squirt out of the title in the beginning). Its complacency, its composure, its palliative nature creates some sort of meta-oasis, an ultrasafe haven where we can douse our sails and draw several deep breaths. This new-found serenity marvellously muffles the frenzied bedlam we are all more or less quietly suffering from nowadays. There is only one thing we should never forget: to watch out for the “splinters” of “could-have-been-ness”. The more we saunter around the quay of melancholy, the greater the chances for one or two of them to pierce our skulls and go deep inside the contemplative and sensitive “flesh” of our memories. Keep in mind the fact that under the circumstances any medicaments or drugs which would alleviate the ensuing pain may be hard to come by. Ultimately, the only ointment we have been left with is the remains. The remains of our day…

Now, grinding to a halt as the remains of this text are not far from a total depletion, I still can’t stop pondering upon the essence of the above traits and features of Kazuo Ishiguro’s work. From the title which goes slightly à rebours the traditionally perceived sayings, to the mesmerizing benevolence or even the acquiescence we revel in while recuperating at the core of book’s hypotheticality, at the tranquil “perhapsness” which unforcefully triggers our own recollections, counterpointing those of Mr Stevens – have they all been conceived to console? Have they all been contrived to give us – the camels that carry the ever increasing heaps of straws – a nugget of hope that our backs will not break under the fiendish weight of hay after all? I have always been extremely cautious and dubious about books which have a tendency to tamper with readers’ reminiscing abilities. Has it been so because my own heap of straws formed a certain pattern of distrustful reproach towards such a phenomenon – I am not sure. All I know is The Remains of the Day took me by surprise with its equable persistence to enchant with simplicity of an underlying sophisticated quietude. Given my previous leeriness, perhaps it would be an overkill on my part to claim that the novel has managed to get rid of a few straws off my back, yet I cannot deny that I feel I am slightly taller than I have been before the reading. And I wish you regained an inch or two as well, even if just for a final sunset paving the way for the remains of your last day…

Amonne Purity

Pride in one’s art is usually encouraged, but what if one’s art supported a cause or a thought process that’s no longer in favor or that has even become denigrated?  Is the art to be thrown out completely as suspect, or can one admire the skill and technique of the artist, while questioning the themes represented?  This is one of the main themes of An Artist of the Floating World.  And as with many other literary novels, there are no easy answers when confronting such questions.  

Born of Japanese parents, Ishiguro moved to the U.K. when he was five.  He was brought up with Japanese cultural values, but his relationship with Japan is complex. During his early years, his reading and writing were more influenced by British writers than Japanese ones.  This second novel, like his first published four years before, centers around Japanese characters; however, the style reflects those of his contemporaries in the British literary world of the 1980s.  In fact, Ishiguro wouldn’t return to Japan until three years after this novel’s publication.  So, his literary Japan is one based off of recollections from his parents, with imagination filling the gaps.  Still, the novel captures the feelings of the period accurately when comparing it with history.   

The novel, set in postwar Japan, follows Masuji Ono as he deals with the aftermath of Japan’s defeat in World War II.  He lost his wife in one of the last bombing raids of the war, and is now trying to arrange the marriage of his youngest daughter Noriko.  There’s a dilemma however beyond trying to cope as a widower in a country trying to rebuild.  Ono had a career as a successful artist decades before the war.  During the 1930s, he however attached himself to the growing militaristic spirit of Imperial Japan.  Once a painter of scenes of frivolity in the pleasure quarters of the city, he turned to painting political propaganda pieces after observing the poverty afflicting the country.  This lead to a break with the artistic tradition that he was taught.  At the height of Japanese conquests, he was held in esteem by the people and the government.  With Japan’s defeat, his reputation is now in tatters, and he is held at a distance like a leper by many.  The new ethos of democracy has supplanted the old imperial creed, and he increasingly seems to be a relict by his daughters and in-laws.

One of Ono’s primary struggles is finding a husband for that youngest daughter.  Noriko is a woman in her mid-twenties, and she is steadily marching towards old maid-status according to the culture and period.  Ono has a feeling that his role as an Imperial propagandist has hindered families from completing a match between their sons and his daughter.  When the novel begins, one finds that a hopeful match had suddenly collapsed the year before, and Ono is nervous whether the current match will follow a similar pattern, especially if the family looks deeply into his past.  Ono tries not to be ashamed of his past, but he knows that it has not only affected his daughter’s prospects, but his relationships with many of his past associates.  During wartime, Ono served the government not only as a propagandist, but also as an informer against those artists expressing sentiments not in accord with the manifest destiny of the Japanese Empire.  As those artists’ reputations are being rehabilitated postwar, his reputation has fallen due to individuals in the art world and government viewing him as a stooge of the militaristic regime.

Ono also has to deal with changes beyond the political culture.  Because of the promotion of democracy, attitudes toward the elderly have changed too.  Not that the younger generation is disrespectful to their elders, but they increasingly believe that new mores should be given a chance.  This is seen in the contrasting situations where Ono deals with his grandson Ichiro and the way Ichiro’s mother Setsuko handles him.  It seems that Ono is confused by Ichiro’s playful imitation of Western media characters, but Setsuko approves that Ichiro prefers Western heroes to the figures of Japanese history and legend.  His daughters’ husbands profess similar admiration for the values promoted by the American Occupation, and this includes supporting the dismissal of senior staff in the corporate world who could’ve been tainted by the wartime ethos.  As deference for one’s elders is part of traditional Japanese culture, Ono is confused by the wholesale rejection of everything prewar, and thinks it not entirely necessary, even though he realizes that Japan must admit responsibility for the war.  Whether Ono finds himself responsible for some of the negativity associated with the period is still a mystery by the end of the novel, as he vacillates between opinions concerning his importance during wartime and whether all his art was nefarious when he promoted the war effort.

While the novel is definitely not a beach-read, it’s perfect for those who want something brief, but who don’t want to feel like they wasted their time on something with ephemeral value.  Though not much external action takes place, it doesn’t feel like the characters are static.  The restraint in the characters’ behavior often tells much more about their feelings and motivations.  Because Ono is a flawed character, the reader sympathizes with him somewhat.  Not that one agrees with his wartime career choices, but one believes that he sincerely believed that he was doing right.  What the reader may have a problem with is Ono’s failure to acknowledge that the postwar reevaluation of expansionist mindset is perhaps closer to truth than his sincere wartime beliefs despite his associates and family prodding him in that direction.  It’s not that Ono is a monster; he seems to be a kind family man, willing to yield in a number of matters.  It’s that he is blind concerning aspects of his past, and this blindness is likely deliberate because those aspects may call into question his integrity as an artist.