When We Were Orphans

When We Were Orphans

3.6 24
by Kazuo Ishiguro
     
 

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From the Booker Prize-winning, bestselling author of Remains of the Day comes this stunning work of soaring imagination.

Born in early-twentieth-century Shanghai, Banks was orphaned at the age of nine after the separate disappearances of his parents. Now, more than twenty years later, he is a celebrated figure in London society; yet the…  See more details below

Overview

From the Booker Prize-winning, bestselling author of Remains of the Day comes this stunning work of soaring imagination.

Born in early-twentieth-century Shanghai, Banks was orphaned at the age of nine after the separate disappearances of his parents. Now, more than twenty years later, he is a celebrated figure in London society; yet the investigative expertise that has garnered him fame has done little to illuminate the circumstances of his parents' alleged kidnappings. Banks travels to the seething, labyrinthine city of his memory in hopes of solving the mystery of his own, painful past, only to find that war is ravaging Shanghai beyond recognition-and that his own recollections are proving as difficult to trust as the people around him.

Masterful, suspenseful and psychologically acute, When We Were Orphans offers a profound meditation on the shifting quality of memory, and the possibility of avenging one’s past.

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Editorial Reviews

Guardian
Ishiguro shows immense tenderness for his characters. [The novel] confirms Ishiguro as one of Britain's mist formally daring and challenging novelists.
Sunday Times
You seldom read a novel that so convinces you it is extending the possibilities of fiction. Ishiguro's abandonment of realism is not a defection from reality, but the contrary.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Set in Shanghai on the eve of World War II, Ishiguro's Booker-nominated novel follows the surreal predicament of Christopher Banks, an English expatriate whose overwrought state is perfectly rendered by narrator John Lee. After his parents are mysteriously kidnapped, nine-year-old Christopher is shipped off to England, where he grows up to become the Sherlock Holmes of his times--a man able to right wrongs, restore order. After 18 years, Banks returns to Shanghai with the bizarre notion that if he can find his parents, he can prevent the world war. Banks's search drags him through the era's Chinese-Japanese war in a masterful sequence where past and present, reality and imagination, good and evil become indistinguishable. Lee seamlessly renders Banks's complex psychology, but he employs an exaggerated nasal voice for the characters of several pompous Brits, and his Chinese and Japanese accents are often off-putting. But listeners probably won't let these small blemishes keep them from Ishiguro's much-acclaimed tale of abandonment, nostalgia and self-delusion. Based on the Knopf hardcover (Forecasts, July 10). (Sept.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Atmosphere, historical detail, suspense: Ishiguro's new book has it all, and if the parts finally don't add up, the author should still be credited with providing another great read. He should also be credited with originality, for though he investigates the polarities of insider-outsider, English-foreign, as he has done before (e.g., The Remains of the Day, The Unconsoled), he is hardly writing the same book again and again. Here, Christopher Banks is an Englishman born in early 20th-century Shanghai whose parents disappear mysteriously when he is nine. He is escorted to England, grows up to be a famed detective, and returns to Shanghai, convinced that his parents are still alive and that he must find them. The reader is less convinced that Banks is a real detective and wonder how he can entertain the romantic notion that his parents have been held hostage in Shanghai for decades, but the truth behind their disappearance comes as a satisfying surprise. And the writing is just wonderful, at once rich and taut. More writers should take style lessons from Ishiguro. For most collections. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/00.]--Barbara Hoffert, "Library Journal" Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
New York Times Book Review
When We Were Orphans is [Ishiguro's] fullest achievement yet... with When We Were Orphans, Ishiguro appears to have found his synthesis, not only in its expansive yet finely modulated narrative but also in the way it bends the hallucinatory world of its immediate predecessor [The Unconsoled] toward the surface verisimilitude of the butler's story [in The Remains of the Day].
Joyce Carol Oates
When We Were Orphans will linger in the mind as an often fascinating, imaginative work of surpassing intelligence and taste.
Times Literary Supplement
Kirkus Reviews
An eerie, oddly beautiful tale from the internationally acclaimed author revolves around an enigmatic ordeal essentially similar to that undergone in Ishiguro's The Unconsoled (1995). This narrator, Christopher Banks, is a prominent English detective whose ratiocinative skills are severely tested by mysteries lodged in his own haunted past. Born in Shanghai, where his father was employed in the early 1900s by a powerful global trading company, Christopher spent most of his first decade sheltered in that otherwise turbulent city's secure International Settlement, only dimly aware of his mother's outspoken criticism of the ruinous opium trade (in which her husband's employer was heavily invested): a courageous stance that presumably led to the separate "disappearances" of both Banks parents, and their son's return to live with relatives in England. Twenty-some years later (in 1937), the eminent detective, now the beneficiary of a family legacy and the adoptive father of an(other) orphan, returns to Shanghai determined to rediscover the personal history taken from him long ago. But China is now imperiled by an increasingly violent Japanese military presence; old acquaintances assume inexplicably "foreign" shapes; every step taken toward recapturing his past confirms the indigenous axiom that "our childhood becomes like a foreign land once we have grown." The disturbing climax, set in an unsettled urban hell far from the placid environs of the International Settlement, leads to a bitterly ironic revelation of what was sacrificed in order that Christopher Banks might live, and the chastened realization that he is one of those(unconsoled?)"whose fate is to face the world as orphans, chasing through long years the shadows of vanished parents." Elegiac, meditative, ultimately emotionally devastating, and the purest expression yet of the author's obsessive theme: the buried life unearthed by its contingent interconnection with the passions, secrets, and priorities of unignorable other lives. First printing of 75,000

From the Publisher
"Ishiguro is a stylist like no other, a writer who knows that the truth is often unspoken." — Maclean's

"A detective story, childhood memoir and political fable in one.... A rich exploration of the rupture of childhood and the baggage we carry from that 'foreign land', filled with suspense, intrigue and a lightning-flash denouement." — The Guardian

"Beautifully written...[capturing] the joys, pains and adventures of two young boys, one not quite English and one not quite Japanese, in a protected enclave in a foreign land. This is superb writing which addresses the complexities of national and racial loyalties and the struggle to live up to the higher human ideals found beyond such limiting notions." — National Post

"One of the finest prose stylists of our time." — Michael Ondaatje

“Ishiguro, along with Kafka, is the great bureaucratic fabulist of anxiety. Anxiety is his imaginative architecture.”—The Guardian

“Ishiguro’s riskiest, funniest, most chaotic book yet…. Subtle and sad at first, the book shades into black hilarity.”—The Globe and Mail

“[Ishiguro] takes the notion of an unreliable narrator to new heights of tension.”—Boston Globe Books

“A real page-turner…an enigmatic crime, a vivid portrait of old Shanghai, a hero whose blindness to his own inner life lets readers see something of themselves.”—Vogue

“Ishiguro intends surrealism. Through that lens, we repeatedly glimpse and hurt for the perpetual lost boy in Banks as he rewrites his guilt-ridden manhood. The novel’s poignancy is deepened, and the prevailing metaphor – our futile descent into childhood’s fictive consolations – reveals wonders.”—The Calgary Straight

“Ishiguro shows immense tenderness for his characters, however absurd or deluded they may be…. In its use of an array of techniques to illuminate psychological and political truths, When We Were Orphans confirms Ishiguro as one of Britain’s most formally daring and challenging novelists.”—The Guardian

“Don’t expect a heartwarming read when you open When We Were Orphans. But it’s not depressing, either, because Ishiguro knows how to keep the nightmare interesting, even buoyant.… Like certain other contemporary writers, such as Paul Auster, Ishiguro has discovered a strong narrative can just as easily convey existential reality.”—The Toronto Star

“Ishiguro is probably the most interesting writer about war working at present. Even when he seems to be writing about something else, Ishiguro’s writing is infused with a profound sense of the effect that great historical events have on people’s lives. This, not blood and guts and perfectly researched period underwear details, is the real story of the cataclysmic century just closed.”—The Independent

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780375410543
Publisher:
Knopf Publishing Group
Publication date:
09/12/2000
Edition description:
1 AMER ED
Pages:
335
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 8.55(h) x 1.39(d)

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Chapter One

It was the summer of 1923, the summer I came down from Cambridge, when despite my aunt's wishes that I return to Shropshire, I decided my future lay in the capital and took up a small flat at Number 14b Bedford Gardens in Kensington. I remember it now as the most wonderful of summers. After years of being surrounded by fellows, both at school and at Cambridge, I took great pleasure in my own company. I enjoyed the London parks, the quiet of the Reading Room at the British Museum; I indulged entire afternoons strolling the streets of Kensington, outlining to myself plans for my future, pausing once in a while to admire how here in England, even in the midst of such a great city, creepers and ivy are to be found clinging to the fronts of fine houses.

It was on one such leisurely walk that I encountered quite by chance an old schoolfriend, James Osbourne, and discovering him to be a neighbour, suggested he call on me when he was next passing. Although at that point I had yet to receive a single visitor in my rooms, I issued my invitation with confidence, having chosen the premises with some care. The rent was not high, but my landlady had furnished the place in a tasteful manner that evoked an unhurried Victorian past; the drawing room, which received plenty of sun throughout the first half of the day, contained an ageing sofa as well as two snug armchairs, an antique sideboard and an oak bookcase filled with crumbling encyclopaedias—all of which I was convinced would win the approval of any visitor. Moreover, almost immediately upon taking the rooms, I had walked over to Knightsbridge and acquired there a Queen Anne tea service, several packets of fineteas, and a large tin of biscuits. So when Osbourne did happen along one morning a few days later, I was able to serve out the refreshments with an assurance that never once permitted him to suppose he was my first guest.

For the first fifteen minutes or so, Osbourne moved restlessly around my drawing room, complimenting me on the premises, examining this and that, looking regularly out of the windows to exclaim at whatever was going on below. Eventually he flopped down into the sofa, and we were able to exchange news—our own and that of old schoolfriends. I remember we spent a little time discussing the activities of the workers' unions, before embarking on a long and enjoyable debate on German philosophy, which enabled us to display to one another the intellectual prowess we each had gained at our respective universities. Then Osbourne rose and began his pacing again, pronouncing as he did so upon his various plans for the future.

"I've a mind to go into publishing, you know. Newspapers, magazines, that sort of thing. In fact, I fancy writing a column myself. About politics, social issues. That is, as I say, if I decide not to go into politics myself. I say, Banks, do you really have no idea what you want to do? Look, it's all out there for us"—he indicated the window—"Surely you have some plans."

"I suppose so," I said, smiling. "I have one or two things in mind. I'll let you know in good time."

"What have you got up your sleeve? Come on, out with it! I'll get it out of you yet!"

But I revealed nothing to him, and before long got him arguing again about philosophy or poetry or some such thing. Then around noon, Osbourne suddenly remembered a lunch appointment in Piccadilly and began to gather up his belongings. It was as he was leaving, he turned at the door, saying:

"Look, old chap, I meant to say to you. I'm going along tonight to a bash. It's in honour of Leonard Evershott. The tycoon, you know. An uncle of mine's giving it. Rather short notice, but I wondered if you'd care to come along. I'm quite serious. I'd been meaning to pop over to you long ago, just never got round to it. It'll be at the Charingworth."

When I did not reply immediately, he took a step towards me and said:

"I thought of you because I was remembering. I was remembering how you always used to quiz me about my being 'well connected.' Oh, come on! Don't pretend you've forgotten! You used to interrogate me mercilessly. 'Well connected? Just what does that mean, well connected?' Well, I thought, here's a chance for old Banks to see 'well connected' for himself." Then he shook his head, as though at a memory, saying: "My goodness, you were such an odd bird at school."

I believe it was at this point I finally assented to his suggestion for the evening—an evening which, as I shall explain, was to prove far more significant than I could then have imagined—and showed him out without betraying in any part the resentment I was feeling at these last words of his.

My annoyance only grew once I had sat down again. I had, as it happened, guessed immediately what Osbourne had been referring to. The fact was, throughout school, I had heard it said repeatedly of Osbourne that he was "well connected." It was a phrase that came up unfailingly when people talked of him, and I believe I too used it about him whenever it seemed called for. It was indeed a concept that fascinated me, this notion that he was in some mysterious way connected to various of the higher walks of life, even though he looked and behaved no differently from the rest of us. However, I cannot imagine I "mercilessly interrogated" him as he had claimed. It is true the subject was something I thought about a lot when I was fourteen or fifteen, but Osbourne and I had not been especially close at school and, as far as I remember, I only once brought it up with him personally.
It was on a foggy autumn morning, and the two of us had been sitting on a low wall outside a country inn. My guess is that we would have been in the Fifth by then. We had been appointed as markers for a cross-country run, and were waiting for the runners to emerge from the fog across a nearby field so that we could point them in the correct direction down a muddy lane. We were not expecting the runners for some time yet, and so had been idly chatting. It was on this occasion, I am sure, that I asked Osbourne about his "well connectedness." Osbourne, who for all his exuberance, had a modest nature, tried to change the subject. But I persisted until he said eventually:

"Oh, do knock it off, Banks. It's all just nonsense, there's nothing to analyse. One simply knows people. One has parents, uncles, family friends. I don't know what there is to be so puzzled about." Then quickly realising what he had said, he had turned and touched my arm. "Dreadfully sorry, old fellow. That was awfully tactless of me."

This faux pas seemed to cause Osbourne much more anguish than it had me. Indeed, it is not impossible it had remained on his conscience for all those years, so that in asking me to accompany him to the Charingworth Club that evening, he was in some way trying to make amends. In any case, as I say, I had not been at all upset that foggy morning by his admittedly careless remark. In fact, it had become a matter of some irritation to me that my schoolfriends, for all their readiness to fall into banter concerning virtually any other of one's misfortunes, would observe a great solemnness at the first mention of my parents' absence. Actually, odd as it may sound, my lack of parents—indeed, of any close kin in England except my aunt in Shropshire—had by then long ceased to be of any great inconvenience to me. As I would often point out to my companions, at a boarding school like ours, we had all learned to get on without parents, and my position was not as unique as all that. Nevertheless, now I look back on it, it seems probable that at least some of my fascination with Osbourne's "well connectedness" had to do with what I then perceived to be my complete lack of connection with the world beyond St. Dunstan's. That I would, when the time came, forge such connections for myself and make my way, I had no doubts. But it is possible I believed I would learn from Osbourne something crucial, something of the way such things worked.

But when I said before that Osbourne's words as he left my flat had somewhat offended me, I was not referring to his raising the matter of my "interrogating" him all those years before. Rather, what I had taken exception to was his casual judgement that I had been "such an odd bird at school."

In fact, it has always been a puzzle to me that Osbourne should have said such a thing of me that morning, since my own memory is that I blended perfectly into English school life. During even my earliest weeks at St. Dunstan's, I do not believe I did anything to cause myself embarrassment. On my very first day, for instance, I recall observing a mannerism many of the boys adopted when standing and talking—of tucking the right hand into a waistcoat pocket and moving the left shoulder up and down in a kind of shrug to underline certain of their remarks. I distinctly remember reproducing this mannerism on that same first day with sufficient expertise that not a single of my fellows noticed anything odd or thought to make fun.

In much the same bold spirit, I rapidly absorbed the other gestures, turns of phrase and exclamations popular among my peers, as well as grasping the deeper mores and etiquettes prevailing in my new surroundings. I certainly realised quickly enough that it would not do for me to indulge openly—as I had been doing routinely in Shanghai—my ideas on crime and its detection. So much so that even when during my third year there was a series of thefts, and the entire school was enjoying playing at detectives, I carefully refrained from joining in in all but a nominal way. And it was, no doubt, some remnant of this same policy that caused me to reveal so little of my "plans" to Osbourne that morning he called on me.

However, for all my caution, I can bring to mind at least two instances from school that suggest I must, at least occasionally, have lowered my guard sufficiently to give some idea of my ambitions. I was unable even at the time to account for these incidents, and am no closer to doing so today.

The earlier of these occurred on the occasion of my fourteenth birthday. My two good friends of that time, Robert Thornton-Browne and Russell Stanton, had taken me to a tea-shop in the village and we had been enjoying ourselves over scones and cream cakes. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and all the other tables were occupied. This meant that every few minutes more rain-soaked villagers would come in, look around, and throw disapproving looks in our direction as though we should immediately vacate our table for them. But Mrs. Jordan, the proprietress, had always been welcoming towards us, and on that afternoon of my birthday, we felt we had every right to be occupying the choice table beside the bay window with its view of the village square. I do not recall much of what we talked about that day; but once we had eaten our fill, my two companions exchanged looks, then Thornton-Browne reached down into his satchel and presented to me a gift-wrapped package.

As I set about opening it, I quickly realised the package had been wrapped in numerous sheets, and my friends would laugh noisily each time I removed one layer, only to be confronted by another. All the signs, then, were that I would find some joke item at the end of it all. What I did eventually uncover was a weathered leather case, and when I undid the tiny catch and raised the lid, a magnifying glass.

I have it here now before me. Its appearance has changed little over the years; it was on that afternoon already well travelled. I remember noting this, along with the fact that it was very powerful, surprisingly weighty, and that the ivory handle was chipped all down one side. I did not notice until later—one needs a second magnifying glass to read the engraving—that it was manufactured in Zurich in 1887.

My first reaction to this gift was one of huge excitement. I snatched it up, brushing aside the bundles of wrapping covering the table surface—I suspect in my enthusiasm I caused a few sheets to flutter to the floor—and began immediately to test it on some specks of butter smeared on the tablecloth. I became so absorbed that I was only vaguely aware of my friends laughing in that exaggerated way that signifies a joke at one's expense. By the time I looked up, finally self-conscious, they had both fallen into an uncertain silence. It was then that Thornton-Browne gave a half-hearted snigger, saying:

"We thought since you're going to be a detective, you'd be needing one of these."
At this point, I quickly recovered my wits and made a show of pretending the whole thing had been an amusing jest. But by then, I fancy, my two friends were themselves confused about their intentions, and for the remainder of our time at the tea-shop, we never quite regained our former comfortable mood.

As I say, I have the magnifying glass here now in front of me. I used it when investigating the Mannering case; I used it again, most recently, during the Trevor Richardson affair. A magnifying glass may not be quite the crucial piece of equipment of popular myth, but it remains a useful tool for the gathering of certain sorts of evidence, and I fancy I will, for some time yet, carry about with me my birthday gift from Robert Thornton-Browne and Russell Stanton. Gazing at it now, this thought occurs to me: if my companions' intention was indeed to tease me, well then, the joke is now very much on them. But sadly, I have no way now of ascertaining what they had in mind, nor indeed how, for all my precautions, they had ever gleaned my secret ambition. Stanton, who had lied about his age in order to volunteer, was killed in the third battle of Ypres. Thornton-Browne, I heard, died of tuberculosis two years ago. In any case, both boys left St. Dunstan's in the fifth year and I had long since lost touch with them by the time I heard of their deaths. I still remember, though, how disappointed I was when Thornton-Browne left the school; he had been the one real friend I had made since arriving in England, and I missed him much throughout the latter part of my career at St. Dunstan's.

The second of these two instances that comes to mind occurred a few years later—in the Lower Sixth—but my recollection of it is not as detailed. In fact, I cannot remember at all what came before and after this particular moment. What I have is a memory of walking into a classroom—Room 15 in the Old Priory—where the sun was pouring through the narrow cloister windows in shafts, revealing the dust hanging in the air. The master had yet to arrive, but I must have come in slightly late, for I remember finding my classmates already sitting about in clusters on the desk-tops, benches and window ledges. I was about to join one such group of five or six boys, when their faces all turned to me and I saw immediately that they had been discussing me. Then, before I could say anything, one of the group, Roger Brenthurst, pointed towards me and remarked:

"But surely he's rather too short to be a Sherlock."

A few of them laughed, not particularly unkindly, and that, as far as I recall, was all there was to it. I never heard any further talk concerning my aspirations to be a "Sherlock," but for some time afterwards I had a niggling concern that my secret had got out and become a topic for discussion behind my back.


From the eBook edition.

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Meet the Author

Kazuo Ishiguro was born in Nagasaki, Japan, in 1954. His father, an oceanographer, was hired by the British government in 1960, and the family moved to Surrey, England, never expecting to stay long. His grandfather, to whom he was close, sent him packages of Japan’s most popular children’s magazine, so he wouldn’t feel out of touch when he returned. But they remained in England, and Ishiguro (known to friends as “Ish”) “never properly said goodbye to Japan” or his grandparents. When his grandfather died in their old house in Nagasaki, they had not visited Japan in ten years. Even now, he has only returned once, on an author tour, though he has travelled throughout Europe and North America. While in some ways it might seem as though he has lost his “Japanese-ness”, he has avoided going back mainly because “in my head…the world of my childhood is still intact.” Perhaps that vision contributed to the beautifully conjured lost paradise of Banks’ youth in the novel, and for the metaphor of the orphan, torn from the sheltered haven of childhood. It may also account for Ishiguro’s persistent fascination with memory.

After his first year at Kent University, where he read English and Philosophy, he took a sabbatical to work on a housing estate outside Glasgow; after finishing his degree, he volunteered in London for an organization that looked after the homeless. He read little as a teenager, and wanted to be a singer-songwriter until around age twenty-four. But, he ventures, “you bang on a door and it doesn’t open, and another one happens to open, so you go through it.” Thus, he enrolled in the top-notch creative writing program at the University of East Anglia, where his tutors were Malcolm Bradbury and Angela Carter. His first short stories were included in a prominent volume of promising young writers, and his first novel was published soon after. Now he writes full-time, working very regular hours of 9:00 a.m. — 5:30 p.m., at home in Golders Green, a leafy and now multicultural suburb of north London, which allows him to spend a lot of time with his wife and partner of twenty years and their young daughter. In his spare time, he plays jazz, folk and blues on his collection of guitars.

Surprisingly, Ishiguro admits that his novels are, to some extent, deliberately “going over the same ground,” often told in a pseudo-diary form by a single central narrator, with flashbacks as the narrator looks back from different points. “That’s the foundation of the structure for me – the state of mind of the narrator shifting slightly but ever so significantly.” With Banks, determined to fulfill his mission no matter how destructive or selfish it might seem, he was “tracing someone’s obsessions and how certain agendas…set emotionally, early in life, can continue to assert themselves throughout adulthood.… Peculiar things govern the big decisions that we make in our lives. Often it’s something rather irrational.” Ishiguro compares the book to an expressionist painting, where the world is distorted by the emotion of the artist’s perspective: it is “an attempt to paint a picture” of the world “according to someone's crazy logic.”

The taking-off point was the ‘30s English detective novel, such as those of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, which he read as a child. “What interested me…was that they often portrayed this idyllic view of English society…this community that would work really beautifully if there wasn’t this one thing that had gone wrong.” The villain is always found, and life is perfect again: pure escapism. But after World War I, people didn’t need reminding of the real nature of evil and suffering. “I had the image of such a detective let loose in the modern world, still with the idea that he can counter evil by these methods. And how absurd it would look going round with a magnifying glass trying to stop the Second World War.” In a sense, Banks represents the naïve, innocent, idealistic part of all of us. “It’s tempting to say that there was an evil man called Hitler who decided to kill the Jews,” but that is to deny the “chaos and blood-lust” of a century of history.

Of his tendency to write about World War II, he comments: “Part of me is very affected by the fact that I was born in Nagasaki nine years after the atomic bomb hit that city.” On August 9, 1945, thirty-nine thousand people were killed, and the surviving half of the city had to burn the bodies before disease set in; his mother was eighteen. When Ishiguro published his first short stories, she told him: “You are in the public realm now, you have some power.” A recent visit to Auschwitz made him particularly conscious of the fact that when the survivors are gone, there is a danger the memory will have no more relevance to future generations than the Napoleonic Wars. For the first time in a century, there is a generation who has never known military conflict, with leaders who did not experience a war directly. He feels “it is the duty of all my generation to keep memories alive, we who grew up in the shadow of war.”

However, he chooses the setting of each novel to bring out his themes and is not interested in historical reconstruction, which he says is for films, not books. “To make that projector come on inside a reader’s head, you…have to give just enough so that the reader brings all these other images that are floating around in his or her head…. To a certain extent you can muck about with stereotypes and stereotypical images and you can juxtapose them in unlikely ways.” Just as the England of The Remains of the Day was “highly mythological,” he uses the image of pre-war Shanghai as a city of international intrigue. He’s less and less interested in realism, and aims for what cannot be done in cinema and television. “One of the strengths of novels over camera-based storytelling is that you are able to get right inside people’s heads…to explore people's inner worlds much more thoroughly and with much more subtlety.”

Each of his understated, finely wrought novels has been published to international acclaim beyond most writers’ dreams. He was in both of Granta’s Best of Young British Novelists anthologies, and won the Booker Prize at thirty-four. But The Unconsoled baffled many: “600 pages of plotless, circular, sustained hallucination,” said the Guardian, who wondered if When We Were Orphans was an attempt to get his point across better. Some dislike his style here, too. Neil Bissoondath in the National Post was not alone in commenting that the novel was “strangely flat.” The Observer said the protagonist’s diction was unsuited to his character; others complained of too subtle humour and instabilities of tone. While author Catherine Bush, in The Globe and Mail, agreed that reading When We Were Orphans was an “increasingly bewildering experience,” concluded: “Ishiguro’s novels require a reader to read aslant, to play detective, if you will, alive to clues, to what’s left out as much as what’s revealed.” The novel should provide plenty of debate.

Ishiguro says he’s a less controlled writer than he used to be – he actually threw out 110 pages, almost a year’s work, of a story-within-a-story showing the Golden Age sleuth at work. The Remains of the Day was his easiest book to write. He plans his novels less rigidly now, allowing room for surprises. (“Some of the most interesting writing can be stuff that is quite uncomfortable for the writer.”) He feels a sense of urgency about his writing, worrying that publicity — which he does so well, giving long and detailed interviews – takes so much time. He also feels that makes writers very self-conscious about their work, for better or worse, and aware of their international audience. “I think when people look back on this era, and when they look at the literature produced in this era, they’ll have to look at the tour to understand why writing has gone in a certain direction.”

Ishiguro’s work is often compared to that of Franz Kafka, and sometimes to the work of Dostoevsky, whom he names as one of his favourite writers. He also admires Chekhov’s short stories, Raymond Carver, Richard Ford, James Ellroy, Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, the Jeeves novels of P. G. Wodehouse, and the adventures of Sherlock Holmes stories.

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