A Review of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day

I was very sceptical of Ishiguro for a long time. Yes, I’d read and thoroughly enjoyed Never Let Me Go, but was he really worth all of the hype? So, I guess it’s with this mindset that I began reading The Remains of the Day a few months ago. The opening of the novel is very slow moving and within a dozen pages I put it back on the shelf and there it stayed until I was looking for something short to take on a train trip. And so Mr Stevens and his quiet demeanour reentered my life. This time, I stuck with it and this morning finished the final chapter. While this is perhaps not my typical read, I cannot deny that I enjoyed it and can’t help but recommend it.

If I were to say that this is a quiet book, would that make sense? There is no dramatic climax, no great adventure, merely the musings of a man looking back on his life. The Remains of the Day is the story of Mr Stevens, a butler in a post World War Two landscape, who has decided to take a car journey of several days through the English countryside in order to visit a woman who was once his colleague. Throughout the journey, Stevens reminisces on Miss Kenton, their past employer Lord Darlington and life before the war. It’s an introspective piece in which Stevens seems to be considering his own behaviour and character as well as those who were once a part of his life. Great figures from history make cameo appearances, there is speculation on politics and even what it takes to be a great butler, making it feel at times as though it is less a work of fiction than a memoir. In fact, the whole piece reads like a classic and it is easy to forget that it was in fact only written in 1989. The language is wonderfully rich and old fashioned feeling. Yet, there is also a stiffness to it, a sense that no much introspection and self analysis Stevens does on his journey he doesn’t really get at his deeper feelings or ever truly let himself go. Despite the first person narrative, Stevens still somehow remains very formal, as though he is talking to his reader rather than thinking to himself.

At its heart this is a sad story, a story of unspoken truths and moments missed. It’s a poignant reminder of how short life is and how important communication is. Although even this itself is not discussed, but rather touched upon in a final conversation with Miss Kenton (now married) in way that allows you to appreciate that Stevens understands himself and the situation far better than he has ever let on or even does at that moment. The inner story is never discussed, the key to the novel being in what is written between the lines. Once again Ishiguro delivers a story about what might have been, heartbreaking in a quiet way but not explicit in its pain – and that is where the genius lies.