A Pale View of Hills
I finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s first novel _A Pale View of Hills_ late last night. I still feel haunted by it. It is Ishiguro’s first novel and like the others, it is slow moving from the outset. This story though finds a much brisker pace sooner than the others.
With topics of pre and post WWII Japan, Nagasakai, transformation, family tradition, suicide, socialism, societal perception, cultural norm, truths and how we reveal them, this is a book that I thoroughly enjoyed. I’m still relishing how disturbed I still am by some of the suggestions made toward the novel’s end. There is cruelty, and not entirely unlike the other novels, the author presents this cruelty without inspiring a tremendous amount of sentiment from the reader. While we may not be totally empathetic to the character’s choices, we have been given enough information to make some sense of them.
I feel unresolved but the irresolution comes not from a character’s unfinished story (as in the cases of the other novels) but from the intensified quality of unknowing I have upon finishing the book. I feel I know where the protagonist is, for the most part, at the story’s end but it is how she frames her memories of her past that is so compelling. Where and who was she exactly in these memories she so easily shares? How conscious is or was she of the abuses she experienced and inflicted? There is one gesture that recurs and I imagine it is an utterly frightening perspective for a parent to consider, especially if one’s child has taken her own life. In this gesture there is very clearly an indictment being made but it is so loosely presented by the protagonist that one gathers the guilt driving the memory is probably also carving it as well.
We’re not enticed to question her memories though she subtly prompts us to again and again. And while there is a nagging sense of doubt, it is mild and easily overcome by the weight of her story set in a place & time that really begs the reader to learn more.
Ishiguro doesn’t write to provoke outrage with his subject matters, though he so easily could. He writes in a way that is measured and modest and matter of fact. I admire his writing style and will read another of his works once I recover from this one.
With topics of pre and post WWII Japan, Nagasakai, transformation, family tradition, suicide, socialism, societal perception, cultural norm, truths and how we reveal them, this is a book that I thoroughly enjoyed. I’m still relishing how disturbed I still am by some of the suggestions made toward the novel’s end. There is cruelty, and not entirely unlike the other novels, the author presents this cruelty without inspiring a tremendous amount of sentiment from the reader. While we may not be totally empathetic to the character’s choices, we have been given enough information to make some sense of them.
I feel unresolved but the irresolution comes not from a character’s unfinished story (as in the cases of the other novels) but from the intensified quality of unknowing I have upon finishing the book. I feel I know where the protagonist is, for the most part, at the story’s end but it is how she frames her memories of her past that is so compelling. Where and who was she exactly in these memories she so easily shares? How conscious is or was she of the abuses she experienced and inflicted? There is one gesture that recurs and I imagine it is an utterly frightening perspective for a parent to consider, especially if one’s child has taken her own life. In this gesture there is very clearly an indictment being made but it is so loosely presented by the protagonist that one gathers the guilt driving the memory is probably also carving it as well.
We’re not enticed to question her memories though she subtly prompts us to again and again. And while there is a nagging sense of doubt, it is mild and easily overcome by the weight of her story set in a place & time that really begs the reader to learn more.
Ishiguro doesn’t write to provoke outrage with his subject matters, though he so easily could. He writes in a way that is measured and modest and matter of fact. I admire his writing style and will read another of his works once I recover from this one.