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A review by torts
When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro
5.0
My kind-of-scattered, I-had-the-impulse-to-review-this-book-prematurely thoughts on When We Were Orphans :
It's been declared that paradox is the essence of art. So I can't not appreciate a style of writing which is simultaneously straightforward and circular, engaging and frustrating*. Given the novel's inherent contrariness, I feel pretty confident declaring it an elegantly-realized artistic work. (Even though I'm writing this review just barely having passed the book's halfway mark. I seriously doubt that the conclusion of the book could destroy the experience of reading the first half, whether it provides resolution or frustration or absurdity.)
When We Were Orphans confronts the unreliability of memory, of self-knowledge, and of storytelling with its earnest (and clearly delusional) narrator. Ishiguro creates beautifully realistic characters, made more so by the way that they are mis-remembered by the narrator.
I developed a sort of condescending fondness for the narrator. I respected his (supposed) skill as a detective, as well as his (attempted) honesty and insightful narration. His inability to recognize the validity of others' perspectives of him was a charming quirk in his intellectual-loner-investigator personality.
*(see my status updates for evidence of my appreciation for the experience of reading this book)
Having finished it, I can say that the end develops satisfyingly and illuminates new dimensions of the title and the narrator. And that even jaded ol' me was surprised and disturbed by parts of the conclusion.
It's been declared that paradox is the essence of art. So I can't not appreciate a style of writing which is simultaneously straightforward and circular, engaging and frustrating*. Given the novel's inherent contrariness, I feel pretty confident declaring it an elegantly-realized artistic work. (Even though I'm writing this review just barely having passed the book's halfway mark. I seriously doubt that the conclusion of the book could destroy the experience of reading the first half, whether it provides resolution or frustration or absurdity.)
When We Were Orphans confronts the unreliability of memory, of self-knowledge, and of storytelling with its earnest (and clearly delusional) narrator. Ishiguro creates beautifully realistic characters, made more so by the way that they are mis-remembered by the narrator.
I developed a sort of condescending fondness for the narrator. I respected his (supposed) skill as a detective, as well as his (attempted) honesty and insightful narration. His inability to recognize the validity of others' perspectives of him was a charming quirk in his intellectual-loner-investigator personality.
*(see my status updates for evidence of my appreciation for the experience of reading this book)
Having finished it, I can say that the end develops satisfyingly and illuminates new dimensions of the title and the narrator. And that even jaded ol' me was surprised and disturbed by parts of the conclusion.