The Remains of the Day

by Kazuo Ishiguro

one is not struck by the truth until prompted quite accidentally by some external event.

I have heard people describe the moment, when setting sail in a ship, when one finally loses sight of the land. I imagine the experience of unease mixed with exhilaration often described in connection with this moment is very similar to what I felt in the Ford as the surroundings grew strange around me.

There was surely nothing to indicate at the time that such evidently small incidents would render whole dreams forever irredeemable.

‘You’ve got to enjoy yourself. The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it. That’s how I look at it. Ask anybody, they’ll all tell you. The evening’s the best part of the day.’