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3.54 AVERAGE
3.54 AVERAGE
Finally.
l think this is the 4th time l have attempted to read this, giving up purely because l didn't have the ability to solely focus on it - life got in the way.
l love this author. His dreamy style is most effective, but this book felt different to me.
Undoubtedly his most daring in regards to form, there's a tortured tormented feel to it that lies deeper than the the story and our poor poor protagonist.
l can't help but feel the author was glad to be rid of this, and it shows; a vague stench in the pages...
l think this is the 4th time l have attempted to read this, giving up purely because l didn't have the ability to solely focus on it - life got in the way.
l love this author. His dreamy style is most effective, but this book felt different to me.
Undoubtedly his most daring in regards to form, there's a tortured tormented feel to it that lies deeper than the the story and our poor poor protagonist.
l can't help but feel the author was glad to be rid of this, and it shows; a vague stench in the pages...
I give it four stars because it was long and not in a good way but a frustrating way. The whole time the narrator has this semi-amnesia and even though he eventually begins to remember things, this doesn't help at all to understand who he is or what is going on. Also a very unsatisfactory ending. But really well written!
It’s been some time since I finished reading The Unconsoled, and I’m still not sure if I’ve totally digested it enough to write out any coherent thoughts. Though, that seems an appropriate place from which to review this slow motion quicksand tornado.
I’ve seen this story described as dreamlike, and that is unarguable. Ishiguro quickly and masterfully allows us to enter into this state, setting the stage for the suspended disbelief we’ll need to make it through the whirlwind we’re to embark on over the next 500+ pages of absolute unbridled insanity.
This left me with a profound unease that has stuck to my bones in the way of childhood nightmares I’ve never been able to forget. Almost in contradiction to that stickiness, I might describe this story less like a dream and more like what I imagine dementia must feel like.
Dreamlike is almost too whimsical a descriptor for my experience of this story. Of course, there is some whimsy and humor, which was necessary and welcomed. Further, the fantastical wibbly-wobbly-ness in this quantum flow of time, where every action takes simultaneously forever and no time at all, plays into the dreamlike consciousness and keeps the pages turning.
We are forced to experience the frustration and freedom of not being lucid or in control along with our protagonist. From arriving somewhere you didn’t know you were going, to remembering you were supposed to be somewhere long after you should have been, to finding yourself participating in an activity you really didn’t want to, we’re forced to relinquish any sense of control and hold on for dear life as we’re shouted at to enjoy the ride.
Aside from the topical, albeit visceral, sensations of this story, it shed light on some extreme fears, which are the truly sticky bits. The fear of everyone finding out that you’re a hack, the fear of your parents never seeing you make something of yourself, the fear of death and loss of love, the fear that our efforts to fit in will prove unfulfilling or futile, and most apparent, the fear of a wasted life - of getting to the end and realizing that you haven’t even come close to touching your own potential. And worse still, the fear that even if you do somehow reach that potential, no one will care enough to see it. Or perhaps even worse, the fear that we will achieve greatness, and love, and see all the wonders of the world, and our parents will be proud, and our friends will celebrate us, but then in the end, we’ll simply forget all of it, and end up in some place we didn’t know we were going that all at once feels unfamiliar and looks like it could be home.
Still, just like we’re forced to in life, our protagonist trudges on, tossed here and there.
In the end, rather than be defeated, a final rewarding meal of buttery croissants and extra sausages after what felt like a lifetime of starvation is all we need to get to whatever comes next.
Unbearable, unforgettable, undeniable brilliance. This will be one to revisit once the haunting sting wears off.
I’ve seen this story described as dreamlike, and that is unarguable. Ishiguro quickly and masterfully allows us to enter into this state, setting the stage for the suspended disbelief we’ll need to make it through the whirlwind we’re to embark on over the next 500+ pages of absolute unbridled insanity.
This left me with a profound unease that has stuck to my bones in the way of childhood nightmares I’ve never been able to forget. Almost in contradiction to that stickiness, I might describe this story less like a dream and more like what I imagine dementia must feel like.
Dreamlike is almost too whimsical a descriptor for my experience of this story. Of course, there is some whimsy and humor, which was necessary and welcomed. Further, the fantastical wibbly-wobbly-ness in this quantum flow of time, where every action takes simultaneously forever and no time at all, plays into the dreamlike consciousness and keeps the pages turning.
We are forced to experience the frustration and freedom of not being lucid or in control along with our protagonist. From arriving somewhere you didn’t know you were going, to remembering you were supposed to be somewhere long after you should have been, to finding yourself participating in an activity you really didn’t want to, we’re forced to relinquish any sense of control and hold on for dear life as we’re shouted at to enjoy the ride.
Aside from the topical, albeit visceral, sensations of this story, it shed light on some extreme fears, which are the truly sticky bits. The fear of everyone finding out that you’re a hack, the fear of your parents never seeing you make something of yourself, the fear of death and loss of love, the fear that our efforts to fit in will prove unfulfilling or futile, and most apparent, the fear of a wasted life - of getting to the end and realizing that you haven’t even come close to touching your own potential. And worse still, the fear that even if you do somehow reach that potential, no one will care enough to see it. Or perhaps even worse, the fear that we will achieve greatness, and love, and see all the wonders of the world, and our parents will be proud, and our friends will celebrate us, but then in the end, we’ll simply forget all of it, and end up in some place we didn’t know we were going that all at once feels unfamiliar and looks like it could be home.
Still, just like we’re forced to in life, our protagonist trudges on, tossed here and there.
In the end, rather than be defeated, a final rewarding meal of buttery croissants and extra sausages after what felt like a lifetime of starvation is all we need to get to whatever comes next.
Unbearable, unforgettable, undeniable brilliance. This will be one to revisit once the haunting sting wears off.
I liked his Never Let me Go book, so I was looking forward to The Unconsoled. This book made NO SENSE! You know when you're sleeping, and you know you're in a dream, and everything is weird and annoying and not making any sense and you have that kind of ill feeling and finally you realize HEY i can just WAKE UP?! Well, that's what happens in this book. Nothing makes any sense it seems like he's in a dream since he can't remember anything then he knows people he doesnt know and places change all around and it's like everything that's up is down and really, was the author high when he wrote this?! and it was really making me feel vaguely nauseous when i remembered, i can just wake up! AKA, stop reading. So i did. Don't read this book.
The plot of this one is focussed on Ryder, a pianist who is booked in for a performance. In this there’s forgotten commitments, rushed bookings, heart attacks, a bloody missing leg and a really intelligent child for his age called Boris of all names.
I feel like there’s an Ishiguro cycle when reading one of his books. Start, very slow, not sure what is happening, chaos, not sure what is happening still, finish, think it was okay, reflect upon it until you realise it was pretty genius.
I read this one in December and am only just figuring out my opinions, on the path from what the fuck❓to what the fuuuck
I feel like there’s an Ishiguro cycle when reading one of his books. Start, very slow, not sure what is happening, chaos, not sure what is happening still, finish, think it was okay, reflect upon it until you realise it was pretty genius.
I read this one in December and am only just figuring out my opinions, on the path from what the fuck❓to what the fuuuck
I am determined to read all his books, and am working my way through. I loved Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go, very different but both so good. I liked Buried Giant though it is a stretch. This one was quiet, and I do like that, but at times it just dragged a bit too much for me. He is such a good writer and his books are so well done but this one was just a bit long and slow, yet good.
challenging
mysterious
reflective
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Engrossing and maddening. Some tropes got a little repetitive, but there is a lot to enjoy here.
Ishiguro is becoming a long-standing auto-buy author for me; I greatly enjoyed Never Let Me Go and Klara and the Sun and was hoping this next read would follow suit. I saw reviews speaking of The Unconsoled being weird and wonderful and bordering on the Kafkaesque and this only intrigued me more. Upon reading however, I found this book to be readable but not particularly exciting. The mood is indeed surreal but the messages seem too buried in absurdity to properly unearth. I enjoyed some of the conceptual themes about the unconsole villagers Ryder meets but overall just felt immense frustration at the constant back-and-forth with little resolution. None of the characters are likeable (nor do I think they are meant to be) and I found no great satisfaction in reaching the end. I suppose I can understand why some readers reveal in this bizarre journey but I was not one of them. Definitely one of Ishiguro's more divisive books!