THE REMAINS OF THE DAY by Kazuo Ishiguro ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I read this in my teens and remember liking it, but not grasping why. I gave it three stars at the time. Now that I’m a bit older and have seen the years-long ripples of early life’s decisions, I’ve returned to realize it’s because it’s a gorgeously written period piece about a man reminiscing on his occupation, his loyalty, and the unsaid things still haunting him after all these years. It’s poignant and slow, and just what I wanted on this holiday break.

Stevens is a bit of a paradox as a butler, both wonderfully adept and well-meaning, but woefully unaware of himself. He’s blinded by faithfulness to his station, one that leads to a squandered last encounter with his dying father and a bungled romance that he selectively ignores. It’s at times frustrating to watch him move through the world this way, as if someone like him should know better. But his earnestness and relatable inner monologue pull you right back in.

It’s written with a timelessness (published nearly forty years ago) that hits on resonant themes, like how someone can be duped into supporting something against their own interests out of devotion, pride, and not wanting to cause any sort of stir. Stevens’, the poor sap, is a victim of his own ‘dignity’. His roadtrip of recollection brings on a general unease about the events of his life, and he’s left to settle with where it’s lead. If the message of the book can be condensed to one line, it would be “say what you feel, damnit!”

I found it hard to decide if I liked Stevens or if I just pitied him. But if the complexity of a single character can make a story, his is worth the 250 pages. Though sometimes you just want to shake a character and tell them to live their life for themselves, not for anyone or anything else. We only get one, you know. Let it all out while you can. Otherwise, you run the risk of being terminally unfulfilled.