Klara and the Sun [book review]

Klara and the Sun is the latest book of Kazuo Ishiguro. I am a big admirer of Ishiguro’s books and always moved by their bittersweet exploration of humanity (or humanness?!). The remains of the day is one of my favourite books, competing with Graham Greene’s The end of the affair,  and I deeply enjoyed When we were orphans, Never let me go, and The buried giant. While this latest book exhibits the same craftsmanship in depicting human feelings and incomplete (in the sense of unsatisfactory) relations, I feel like I missed some component of the book, too many hints, the overall message… Not that I rushed through it, contrary to my habit, reading a few chapters at a time during lunch breaks. But I cannot set the separation between the subjective perception of Klara [the robotic friend], which is very clearly limited, both by her robotic sensors [lacking a sense of smell for instance] and her learning algorithm, furthermore aggravated by her wasting (?) some material to sabotage a machine, and the real world [within the novel, a vague two-tiered USA]. Because the perspective is always Klara’s. This confusion may be completely intentional and is in that sense brilliant. But I remained perplexed by the Sun central episode in the novel, which I fear reveals a side of the story I did not get. Like Джозі в якийсь момент перетворилася на робота? [Using Ukrainian to avoid spoilers for most readers!]  (In a way, Klara and the Sun is a variation on Never let me go, both dealing with a future where copies of humans could be available, for those who could afford it.)

Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul (1932-2018)

 

I heard of the death of the writer V.S. Naipal late today, after arriving on the North coast of Vancouver Island. While not familiar with many of his books, I remember reading a House for Mr. Biswas and A Bend in the River in the mid 80’s, following a suggestion by my late friend José de Sam Lazaro, who was a professor in Rouen when I was doing my PhD there and with whom I would travel from Paris to Rouen by the first morning train… As most suggestions from José, it was an eye-opener on different views and different stories, as well as a pleasure to read the crisp style of Naipaul. Who thus remains inextricably linked with my memories of José. I also remember later discussing with, by postal letters, while in Purdue, on the strength of Huston’s The Dead, the last and possibly best novel of Joyce’s Dubliners, which stroke me as expressing so clearly and deeply the final feelings of utter failure of Conroy, Gretta’s husband. As well as his defense of Forman’s Amadeus!