The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro

There are some books which reveal to be masterpieces, immaculate works of art as you read on. The most recent of that class that I read was "Good Behaviour" by Molly Keane, a year or two back -  a recommendation as one of the best novels she'd read, by the late Hilary Mantel. And now this - a book that had me hooked through its narration from its first sentence to the last. The best testament of what kind of master class we're talking of is proven by the fact that, nothing worthwhile happens in the 4-5 days that we hear from the narrator other than his recollections with his former master, over a time span of many decades. He he has devoted his life towards the duties and responsibilities of his late master.  It is written from the point of a class of a man, which is synonymous of his profession, and we the reader find ourselves engrossed in his deliberations. While we the reader find that the narrator was not to be fully trusted, the narrator concedes that his devotion to duty and faith  has failed him - that  in the process he had missed opportunities in life, as well as unknowingly assisted his masters' mistakes, as the case may be. There are episodes of subtle humour, especially arising out of the hardheadedness of our narrator, Mr. Stevens, which make the book capture all the necessary sentiments for a good piece of literature.

We find Stevens, moping on his acceptance  of his omissions at last, which he finds may have costed him a chance to happiness in a conventional way. The fact that he had cast all faith in a possible last chance of an attachment, is tantamount to an admission that he always knew that he had let go of a good opportunity in life - but the professionalism in our narrator doesn't admit it till the last moment, until he finds a chance to convey it through the words of another. In essence it is a life committed to decorum, a strait-jacketed culture, which a true practitioner of it, finds leads to missing out on life.

“I can't even say I made my own mistakes. Really - one has to ask oneself - what dignity is there in that?”

It is this sense of dignity that was of so much importance, that the necessity of being honest to oneself was pushed back - until it was to late. Our narrator is helped by a stranger, who offers a way out through a reflection on the luxury of the remains of the day - the evening of life, and there ended, easily one of the top novels I have read in my life.

“For a great many people, the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. Perhaps, then, there is something to his advice that I should cease looking back so much, that I should adopt a more positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished?”

Honestly, upon reading a novel like this, I can't help but see the author as someone of the class of who painted Monalisa, who produced a movie like Annie Hall, or someone who produced a minimalist piece of music I never tire of like 'Oltremare'.

Rating: *****