Status Updates From The Unconsoled

My frustration feels as surreal as this novel. Still lost with no idea where Ishiguro’s taking me, I’m oddly entertained; the scene with Christoff and his blue folder had me laughing outright. Ryder increasingly seems like someone with dissociative amnesia—funny but also deeply pitiable. I feel as if I’m in a labyrinth: time and space bend like a fever-dream—maddening, compelling, and maybe never meant to resolve.

“He’s not so young now […] We can’t hide from it. There’s nothing to be gained in pretending about it” (Ishiguro 450).🍃

“You can behave in any way you like at functions like that. Do whatever you want. It doesn’t make any difference. You’re worth more than the whole room of them put together” (Ishiguro 446).🙏🏼👨🏻‍🍳

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t lost. I’m unsure what to make of Ryder and his narration other than the ramblings of an amnesiac somnambulist whose quality of recall is influenced by the presence of certain people. On the other hand, Ishiguro’s conspicuous satirical take on the world and people of fine arts is enjoyable and I’ve laughed audibly a number of times. I don’t know where he’s taking me but I’m hooked.

This is much different from Ishiguro’s other novels (minus The Buried Giant, which I’ve not read). Still, it carries his unmistakable style. Our narrator, Mr Ryder, initially comes off as even more unreliable than Ishiguro’s usual protagonists. So far, the book feels like a fast-paced strange dream—characters constantly appear, speak at length, and pull Ryder into situations that feel both absorbing and disorienting.