The Remains Of The Day
by Kazuo Ishiguro
Reviewed by: Alvan
Dear Mr Stevens,
I cannot explain exactly why your story touched me so. And as I read, it also made me, in turn, frustrated, angry, sad and wistful.
Perhaps I can. Yours is a story of unspoken and unexpressed love, missed opportunities and, dare I say it, noble self-sacrifice, though I am not sure whether you see it that way.
At various times during your account, I wanted to yell at you: "To heck with dignity! Loosen up! Tell her! Console her!" And I can assure you I wanted to yell it with.. well,I do not know, despair? feeling? anger?
You know why she brought flowers for your room, you know why she was so upset that you never shared your feelings--your true feelings--with her about the matter of the sacked girls, you know why she cried that day. Subconsciously, you know all these. You do. So why didn't you?
Your self-control, self-restraint and professionalism are of the highest order and are impossible to be faulted, of course. In fact, your devotion to your work reminds me of the West Point motto of 'Honour. Duty. Country.' Even though that is un-British, American in fact. Even so, I am willing to wager your conduct far surpassed anything that distinguished academy has ever produced.
You, sir, are the very epitome of the 'stiff upper lip' we foreigners have come to associate with the English. Yet, to extend this, to be so precise, so prim, so proper, in our private lives as well only serves to degrade and devalue the meaning of life.
Don't we--all of us, every one of us--have the right to happiness, to love, to live, and to emotions too? The right to express these? True dignity is when we do as much for ourselves in our personal realms as when we discharge our public duties.
Like Lord Darlington, you are fundamentally a decent man. And like him, perhaps 'misguided', as you say so yourself. I would term it sadly, grossly misguided, not out of any intention of malice or ill-will towards you, as I trust you would understand, but rather, out of a certain heartache and melancholy.
There are occasions when it is necessary--when it is, indeed, essential--that we let go of ourselves, of the deeply ingrained habits of a lifetime, and give expression to our inner feelings. Otherwise, as Miss Kenton says so truly, we are only pretending. Why? Why pretend?
Do forgive my outburst and for being so judgmental. It is not often--in fact, it is an extremely rare occurrence--that I vent my feelings in such an undignified (I hope you accept my use of this word is not a dig at you) manner.
I am consoled, however, that you have found some measure of acceptance and enclosure--normally, I detest this word but somehow it feels apprioprate here--in the end. Yes, it is over, we can't look back anymore. We have to move on, and make the best of what we have and what we have achieved.
Lastly I wish you luck in your attempts to perfect the art of bantering. It appears that you have finally glimpsed what this 'human warmth' is about, and I am happy, very happy, for you. You deserve this happiness.
Yours,
A Reader
P/S: I love your little essays on the English countryside. What else could have given me this sudden desire to traipse about those places you described so beautifully?
