It seems I am working through Kazuo Ishiguro’s novels backwards; first I read Klara and the Sun, I then read Never Let Me Go, and now The Remains of the Day. Ishiguro is a curious author; I’m yet to read a book of his that I felt immediately wowed by, though I don’t doubt that is a [possibly unintended] consequence of his writing style, of which I am generally a fan. However, in each case so far, I have left thinking about what I have just read for days, weeks, months. The characters ...
