You would have searched a long time for the sort of winding lane or tranquil meadow for which England later became celebrated.
I don’t even know why I gave Ishiguro another chance. Maybe because others did love Never Let Me Go and I just wanted to understand.
I still don’t, and I think I’ll be fine without his work, especially this novel. It’s too slow, the tone grates, it all feels like fighting through cold porridge: no satisfaction in the end.
While there is a kind of interesting element. There is a strange mist that takes everyone’s memories. Add in some mythology (this is the time after King Arthur), unreliable narrating and well, it could have been discomforting and exciting.
But no, everything trudges on until it suddenly doesn’t. Gone, done. As I am with this man’s work.
The Buried Giant, Kazuo Ishiguro, Alfred A. Knopf 2015