Remains of the Day

Kazuo Ishiguro

Let us establish this quite clearly: a butler's duty is to provide good service.

As I remember, Giffen's appeared at the beginning of the twenties, and I am sure I am not alone in closely associating its emergence with that change of mood within our profession--that change which came to push the polishing of silver to the position of central importance it still by and large maintains today. This shift was, I believe, like so many other major shifts around this period, a generational matter; it was during these years that our generation of butlers 'came of age', and figures like Mr Marshall, in particular, played a crucial part in making silver-polishing so central.

What do you think dignity's all about?
The directness of this inquiry did, I admit, take me rather by surprise. 'It's rather a hard thing to explain in a few words, sir,' I said. 'But I suspect it comes down to not removing one's clothing in public.'

I remember coming here years ago, and there was this American chap here. We were having a big conference, my father was involved in organizing it. I remember this American chap, even drunker than I am now, he got up at the dinner table in front of the whole company. And he pointed at his lordship and called him an amateur. Called him a bungling amateur and said he was out of his depth. Well, I have to say, Stevens, that American chap was quite right. It's a fact of life. Today's world is too foul a place for fine and noble instincts. You've seen it yourself, haven't you, Stevens? The way they've manipulated something fine and noble. You've seen it yourself, haven' t you?
I'm sorry, sir, but I can't say that I have.

But, then, I rather fancy it has more to do with this skill of bantering. listening to them now, I can hear them exchanging one bantering remark after another. It is, I would suppose, the way many people like to proceed. In fact, it is possible my bench companion of a while ago expected me to banter with him--in which case, I suppose I was something of a sorry disappointment. Perhaps it is indeed time I began to look at this whole matter of bantering more enthusiastically. After all, when one thinks about it, it is not such a foolish thing to indulge in--particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human warmth.

My respect for Mr. Ishiguro grows with every book of his I read. The man is a brilliant writer. His control over the language and the diverse use of style (read Never Let Me Go and compare it with Remains of the Day) are impossible to comprehend. I have often thought how similar the Japanese and English cultures are, but in Mr. Ishiguro we find them synthesized. And in no story have I found this more evident than Remains of the Day. His masterful use of meiosis results in some of the most poignant passages you will ever read.
The narrator of Remains of the Day passes over his life and his current journey with a respectful downplaying that makes you perk up your ears and say, wait! this can't be! this man must be feeling something, he must be screaming inside! And because you are looking for it, you find it. There are many places where you hear the butler Stevens' voice quietly talking over a raging caged goblin that is his soul.
I'm having trouble knowing just what to say about this book. There are so many themes wrapped together in it. Dignity, peace--in one's heart as well as on an international level--, old age and looking back at one's purpose in life. If you are old, reading Remains of the Day (I think) probably makes you feel weak and wish to sit down and perhaps makes you rebel strongly against the weakness of your age and desire to take up anew the standard of your life--whatever it has been--and carry it proudly over one last hill. If you are young, Remains of the Day will probably knock you to your knees and set your teeth to chattering--you'll ask yourself, must I end this way? must I too feel this weight of insignificance and waste when I have walked through the greater portion of my life? It will make you promsie yourself anew to never settle for the mediocre and the pointless, but it will also leave a little bitter taste at the back of your mouth that whispers: you don't have much control over mediocrity or not. It'll seize you no matter what you do. For on the edge of the grave, can any life seem more than half lived?
There is only one point in Remains of the Day where Ishiguro lets his narrator reveal his heart's passion. In one sentence, a sentence so cliche and simple you would pass over it in any other book without a thought, the butler Stevens tells us all his insecurities about how he has lived his life. What if...

I do not think I responded immediately, for it took me a moment or two to fully digest these words of Miss Kenton. Moreover, as you might appreciate, their implications were such as to provoke a certain degree of sorrow within me. Indeed--why should I not admit it?--at that moment, my heart was breaking. Before long, however, I turned to her and said with a smile.

Did you catch it? It was towards the end there. A whole novel full of controlled, gilded statements and then this one, this one statement about his heart and the whole thing is shattered. What if bantering is the key to human warmth?