This quietly subversive novel showed how the English obsession with class colours our emotions, speech and interactions and made me look at the country I thought I knew with fresh eyes
The voice of Stevens, the narrator of Kazuo Ishiguro’s 1989 Booker Prize-winning novel The Remains of the Day, is so authentic and beautifully-sustained that you could believe it had always existed. It is as though, rather than having invented his protagonist, Ishiguro recorded a real English butler’s words and put them on the page. Stevens’ story, as he reflects from 1956 on his decades of service in a large house during a journey to find the former housekeeper who he may or may not love, conveys multitudes about England. His convoluted way of speaking (‘I venture to say, sir…’), and his preoccupation with ‘dignity in keeping with one’s position’, sounds comical today, but his narration is intimate and engaging from the novel’s first page to its last.
The strange music of Stevens’ narration is audible from the first sentence: ‘It seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days.’ Typing them out, the words that strike me are the hyperbolic ‘expedition’ and the surprising ‘really’. The latter could sound incongruous coming from a man of Stevens’ formality, but it is true to patterns of speech, a plausible bit of humanising looseness that is part of the reason why Ishiguro’s narrators’ voices lodge inside your head. Whenever I dip into The Remains of the Day, I catch myself afterwards talking and writing emails in weird, multi-clause sentences and my friends wonder why I’m being uptight.
It would be a stretch to say that I like Stevens – he is pedantic, frustrating, snobbish – but, when I re-read the novel recently, I sympathised with him more than I did 20 years ago— Max Liu
Looking back, Stevens says it is ‘illogical that I should feel any regret or shame’ about working for the disgraced Lord Darlington. It would be easy to conclude that Stevens has wasted his life but I have always stopped short of that judgement, in part because I wonder whether any life is wasted when we each affect the world in myriad immeasurable ways. It would be a stretch to say that I like Stevens – he is pedantic, frustrating, snobbish – but, when I re-read the novel recently, I sympathised with him more than I did 20 years ago. At the end, as he watches the sunset after his meeting with Miss Kenton, I did not want to leave him.
Re-reading the novel in 2022 also illuminated Ishiguro’s technical achievement – Stevens’ voice never wavers and the narrative is structurally seamless – and its enduring relevance. When I read it in 2002, the hard-won progress of the post-war era, which created a more equal Britain, was being consolidated. Subsequent events have undermined that confidence and sown uncertainty. Brexit has been compared to the Suez Crisis, which happened in the year in which The Remains of the Day is set. At the same time, scenes involving Lord Darlington and his Nazi-sympathising allies, who think ‘the world’s far too complicated a place for universal suffrage and such like’, show that when we lose faith in democracy we enter dangerous territory.
After I discovered The Remains of the Day 20 years ago, I read backwards, finding its literary antecedents in P.G. Wodehouse and Jane Austen. Ishiguro’s fiction, meanwhile, became even more distinctive in novels such as The Unconsoled (1995) and Never Let Me Go (2005) and he received the ultimate award when he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2017. For me, his Booker Prize winner is his masterpiece because it distils the upheavals of 20th-century England into an affecting and indelible story that is much bigger than its modest length. Stevens’ voice lives on for future generations to discover and evaluate for themselves.