The Remains of the Day tells, in the first person, the story of Stevens, a proper British butler who has spent three decades in service at Darlington Hall. Stevens has been devoted to his career, playing a reliably unobtrusive role in polishing the etiquette of the upper class while pursuing—in action and, increasingly, in reflection—the goal of greatness in his profession. His dedication to duty is such that he has relegated his private emotions so far below stairs that he seems unable to retrieve any feelings at all. Nothing—not even his father’s dying—is allowed to interfere with his focus on his appointed rounds. The book is a masterpiece of exquisite irony, embroidered around an understanding of human frailty that the author insinuates onto every page, even while it eludes the grasp of the butler who tells the tale.
This is another one where you could select any of his books ... much like the more widely read Murakami, Ishiguro often strays in the supernatural, but much more subtly than the former, to where you find yourself wondering what you just read, and what exactly it means.
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