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skylivohr 's review for:
The Unconsoled
by Kazuo Ishiguro
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.