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3.54 AVERAGE
3.54 AVERAGE
As with any Ishiguro book, I find myself beginning with superlatives at the beginning of any review – or even, really, when I talk to anyone about it – before I even come to explain the plot. This is probably just due to the prose that encapsulates every book, which, of course, some have come to hate, but that I think about before even thinking about what happened inside.
For books such as Never Let Me Go or Klara and the Sun, the plot does the heavy lifting. While sometimes inconsistent and often supposedly anachronistic, you'll always refer to them by the plot. Never Let Me Go is always "that one with the organ harvesting". With The Unconsoled, Ishiguro grants us no such grace of understanding. It, of course, has plot. Ishiguro says he sets out to make a world other than our own; a world with a different set of rules, and that's exactly what he did. More than the sci-fi or the fantasy that he's written, this world is distinctly different from ours. But it also rambles and confuses us, so needs to rest on the laurels of just the world's best writing style.
The book is prose-first, and of course it is, because without the elegance of sentences that are short and words that are small, pages and pages of both internal and character monologues might be just beyond a normal reader's grasp. Without it, the act of Ryder stumbling upon stranger after stranger that turn into loved ones and enemies in just a couple of sentences might confuse the hell out of us. Ryder's long journeys away, in which he opens a door just to find himself back where he'd started, might leave us wondering if it even happened at all. And it still does, sometimes. Just as his forgetting commitment after commitment still leaves us frustrated. And yet, the storytelling brings it all together.
This book almost encourages acting as Ryder does. I find myself forgetting large swathes of my days while I read. I find myself on a twenty-minute walk only to wind up at a restaurant just down the road. I find myself narrating as I feel a 'large bout of impatience' at only a second's notice, and calming down just as quickly. I'm not sure if reading it has made me smarter, wiser, more cultured, or just given me short-term memory loss. But wow, did I enjoy it – at least, as much as I can remember of it.
This might not sound like the most glowing of reviews. I myself reading back over this had a double take when I confirmed that I had put the book at 5 stars, and not 3 or 2. I explained the plot to a friend while reading it, in the most excited voice I could muster, and they seemed less and less interested in borrowing it from me with every word. But still, I could not get enough of it. It's not every day that you read a book that's this different. It's also not every day that you read a book that's this *similar*, nostalgic or familiar.
For books such as Never Let Me Go or Klara and the Sun, the plot does the heavy lifting. While sometimes inconsistent and often supposedly anachronistic, you'll always refer to them by the plot. Never Let Me Go is always "that one with the organ harvesting". With The Unconsoled, Ishiguro grants us no such grace of understanding. It, of course, has plot. Ishiguro says he sets out to make a world other than our own; a world with a different set of rules, and that's exactly what he did. More than the sci-fi or the fantasy that he's written, this world is distinctly different from ours. But it also rambles and confuses us, so needs to rest on the laurels of just the world's best writing style.
The book is prose-first, and of course it is, because without the elegance of sentences that are short and words that are small, pages and pages of both internal and character monologues might be just beyond a normal reader's grasp. Without it, the act of Ryder stumbling upon stranger after stranger that turn into loved ones and enemies in just a couple of sentences might confuse the hell out of us. Ryder's long journeys away, in which he opens a door just to find himself back where he'd started, might leave us wondering if it even happened at all. And it still does, sometimes. Just as his forgetting commitment after commitment still leaves us frustrated. And yet, the storytelling brings it all together.
This book almost encourages acting as Ryder does. I find myself forgetting large swathes of my days while I read. I find myself on a twenty-minute walk only to wind up at a restaurant just down the road. I find myself narrating as I feel a 'large bout of impatience' at only a second's notice, and calming down just as quickly. I'm not sure if reading it has made me smarter, wiser, more cultured, or just given me short-term memory loss. But wow, did I enjoy it – at least, as much as I can remember of it.
This might not sound like the most glowing of reviews. I myself reading back over this had a double take when I confirmed that I had put the book at 5 stars, and not 3 or 2. I explained the plot to a friend while reading it, in the most excited voice I could muster, and they seemed less and less interested in borrowing it from me with every word. But still, I could not get enough of it. It's not every day that you read a book that's this different. It's also not every day that you read a book that's this *similar*, nostalgic or familiar.
challenging
sad
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
adventurous
dark
emotional
funny
inspiring
mysterious
sad
tense
medium-paced
challenging
mysterious
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
emotional
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
My latest Ishiguro read sat on my TBR shelf for a while. At 535 pages, I anticipated a bit of a slog. I egged myself on with the same cantrip I often mutter while reading Ishiguro’s books: Get to the fucking point!
So, I picked it up, and was surprised to find how readable this book is. Now — I have to take pause. This book, to me, is entirely without meaning (unless you prepare yourself to spend hours laboring over hints of subtext and symbolism — by yourself, I might add, because nobody else you know of has read this book). I’m keen on books about nothing, though, and partially credit Ishiguro for me taking a shine to them.
The Unconsoled is simply too long. It’s about a famous musician who arrives in town to put on a seminal performance some three days later. Intending to spend time practicing and preparing for the recital, Mr. Ryder instead finds himself committing to a neverending series of tasks. The spaces between story developments are the novel’s strongest points. I don’t think I’ve ever read something that exemplifies “liminal” so well. Those creepy TikTok videos where the caption reads “you feel like you’ve been here before”, followed by a slideshow of abandoned playgrounds, fluorescent hallways, and impossible landscapes that all seem vaguely familiar? The Unconsoled is that in novel form. It’s dreamlike in a way that is completely un-literary and entirely knee-jerk intuition. As always with Ishiguro, I finished this book with a sense of deep unease. It is, perhaps, not his most focused work, but one I’m glad to have spent time with.
So, I picked it up, and was surprised to find how readable this book is. Now — I have to take pause. This book, to me, is entirely without meaning (unless you prepare yourself to spend hours laboring over hints of subtext and symbolism — by yourself, I might add, because nobody else you know of has read this book). I’m keen on books about nothing, though, and partially credit Ishiguro for me taking a shine to them.
The Unconsoled is simply too long. It’s about a famous musician who arrives in town to put on a seminal performance some three days later. Intending to spend time practicing and preparing for the recital, Mr. Ryder instead finds himself committing to a neverending series of tasks. The spaces between story developments are the novel’s strongest points. I don’t think I’ve ever read something that exemplifies “liminal” so well. Those creepy TikTok videos where the caption reads “you feel like you’ve been here before”, followed by a slideshow of abandoned playgrounds, fluorescent hallways, and impossible landscapes that all seem vaguely familiar? The Unconsoled is that in novel form. It’s dreamlike in a way that is completely un-literary and entirely knee-jerk intuition. As always with Ishiguro, I finished this book with a sense of deep unease. It is, perhaps, not his most focused work, but one I’m glad to have spent time with.
DNF @ page 210 from sheer repetitive fatigue.
There was enough to like at the start that I kept going--surrealism fascinates me, and I was intrigued by the way Ryder often narrated sections of the story that contained information he couldn't possibly know. For example, early on he remains in a parked car while his companion drops in on an acquaintance, and he not only describes what he can see going on at the doorway but follows the pair inside to tell the reader about their meeting. Which he obviously couldn't, from inside the car.
This led me to my first loose theory, that Ryder was dead, and this was his hell, a never-ending stream of obligations he couldn't meet, appointments he would always miss, and people he would always disappoint. I even drew a symbolic meaning from his name to fit this theory--his soul could "ride" along with others, to see what he shouldn't be able to.
(Also how he goes along with every interruption, every random demand on his time. When I stopped reading, he had left Boris, his maybe-stepson, alone in a cafe to do an interview and photo shoot, only to then be nearly abducted from that to go to a luncheon with someone else, and only hours later realizing he'd left Boris behind completely.)
My weird theory, even though I knew it was probably wrong, kept me reading.
But for all that things happened, events occurred, the story never changed. It didn't get better, and it didn't get worse. I read more than 200 pages of weird, semi-impossible happenings that left everyone involved in a constant state of misery, no matter how much they fawned over Ryder for his fame and talent.
I think that's what truly wore me down--everyone is the same. Nearly everyone treats Ryder with the same enthusiastic regard, the same demonstrative deference. Which could certainly be commentary on how many people treat celebrities, but no matter how insightful it is, that doesn't make it pleasant to read endlessly.
Pride made me want to keep slogging through, but sense told me it wouldn't be worth it. I ran out of patience and looked up how the book ends, only to find out there's no resolution--so many reviewers wanted it to be a dream, for Ryder to wake up, but I guess nothing happens? So I didn't waste my time with the last 300 pages, because I've got way too many other books to read.
There was enough to like at the start that I kept going--surrealism fascinates me, and I was intrigued by the way Ryder often narrated sections of the story that contained information he couldn't possibly know. For example, early on he remains in a parked car while his companion drops in on an acquaintance, and he not only describes what he can see going on at the doorway but follows the pair inside to tell the reader about their meeting. Which he obviously couldn't, from inside the car.
This led me to my first loose theory, that Ryder was dead, and this was his hell, a never-ending stream of obligations he couldn't meet, appointments he would always miss, and people he would always disappoint. I even drew a symbolic meaning from his name to fit this theory--his soul could "ride" along with others, to see what he shouldn't be able to.
(Also how he goes along with every interruption, every random demand on his time. When I stopped reading, he had left Boris, his maybe-stepson, alone in a cafe to do an interview and photo shoot, only to then be nearly abducted from that to go to a luncheon with someone else, and only hours later realizing he'd left Boris behind completely.)
My weird theory, even though I knew it was probably wrong, kept me reading.
But for all that things happened, events occurred, the story never changed. It didn't get better, and it didn't get worse. I read more than 200 pages of weird, semi-impossible happenings that left everyone involved in a constant state of misery, no matter how much they fawned over Ryder for his fame and talent.
I think that's what truly wore me down--everyone is the same. Nearly everyone treats Ryder with the same enthusiastic regard, the same demonstrative deference. Which could certainly be commentary on how many people treat celebrities, but no matter how insightful it is, that doesn't make it pleasant to read endlessly.
Pride made me want to keep slogging through, but sense told me it wouldn't be worth it. I ran out of patience and looked up how the book ends, only to find out there's no resolution--so many reviewers wanted it to be a dream, for Ryder to wake up, but I guess nothing happens? So I didn't waste my time with the last 300 pages, because I've got way too many other books to read.
A brilliant concatenation of anxiety dreams as novel.(53)