When We Were Orphans
I finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans last night. It was a disappointment.
About 1/3 of the way through, my friend Hilary, who had recommended I read some Ishiguro, noted that it was her least favorite of his books. She probably had told me that before I bought it at Half Price Books, but it was too late by the time she told me the second time.
Part of the problem may be that I don't know enough about Shanghai in the 1920s-1930s, the opium trade, or the clashes between the Japanese and Chinese. The rest of the problem is that I find Christopher Banks unbelievable. The main character is allegedly a "renowned London detective," yet he seems lacking in self-awareness and intuition, particularly as the book builds to a climax. He is the Michael Scott of detectives---socially awkward without fully realizing it, arrogant if well-meaning, and selfishly insistent on his own childish way.
This is established early in the book, as he reflects on an upcoming event to be attended by the rich and important personages of the day: "I was aware, of course, that this particular evening would be on a different level from anything I had ever attended at university; that I might well, moreover, encounter points of custom as yet unfamiliar with me. But I felt sure I would, with my usual vigilance, negotiate any such difficulties, and in general acquit myself well." (page 12, Vintage paperback edition) Yet, when he struggles socially during the evening, he can't accept that the fault is more than marginally his own, and decides he has "every right to despise the people around [him]...they were for the most part greedy and self-seeking, lacking any idealism or sense of public duty." (page 14)
On one hand, it's a beautifully written book and Ishiguro does a fine job painting a picture of a particular type of person. It's understandable that a child raised by expatriates, orphaned at a young age, and sent to live in his "native" but completely unfamiliar country would have trouble fitting in and be hampered by self-absorption. His self-importance is explained by his idealism and his professional triumphs. The issue I have is that I can't quite understand how he could be a successful detective when so hobbled by his seeming inability to see things from other points of view. When things don't go his way, his reaction is to lash out at the people around him--even those trying to help him in the endeavor of the moment--and assert that he knows better.
Of course, I could be just as misled as Christopher, insisting the character makes no sense when I'm too blind to see a deeper truth.
About 1/3 of the way through, my friend Hilary, who had recommended I read some Ishiguro, noted that it was her least favorite of his books. She probably had told me that before I bought it at Half Price Books, but it was too late by the time she told me the second time.
Part of the problem may be that I don't know enough about Shanghai in the 1920s-1930s, the opium trade, or the clashes between the Japanese and Chinese. The rest of the problem is that I find Christopher Banks unbelievable. The main character is allegedly a "renowned London detective," yet he seems lacking in self-awareness and intuition, particularly as the book builds to a climax. He is the Michael Scott of detectives---socially awkward without fully realizing it, arrogant if well-meaning, and selfishly insistent on his own childish way.
This is established early in the book, as he reflects on an upcoming event to be attended by the rich and important personages of the day: "I was aware, of course, that this particular evening would be on a different level from anything I had ever attended at university; that I might well, moreover, encounter points of custom as yet unfamiliar with me. But I felt sure I would, with my usual vigilance, negotiate any such difficulties, and in general acquit myself well." (page 12, Vintage paperback edition) Yet, when he struggles socially during the evening, he can't accept that the fault is more than marginally his own, and decides he has "every right to despise the people around [him]...they were for the most part greedy and self-seeking, lacking any idealism or sense of public duty." (page 14)
On one hand, it's a beautifully written book and Ishiguro does a fine job painting a picture of a particular type of person. It's understandable that a child raised by expatriates, orphaned at a young age, and sent to live in his "native" but completely unfamiliar country would have trouble fitting in and be hampered by self-absorption. His self-importance is explained by his idealism and his professional triumphs. The issue I have is that I can't quite understand how he could be a successful detective when so hobbled by his seeming inability to see things from other points of view. When things don't go his way, his reaction is to lash out at the people around him--even those trying to help him in the endeavor of the moment--and assert that he knows better.
Of course, I could be just as misled as Christopher, insisting the character makes no sense when I'm too blind to see a deeper truth.
Labels: fiction, Kazuo Ishiguro
posted by Darci at
9:50 PM
1 Comments:
I think you're pretty right, from what I remember (which isn't much). I would highly recommend reading The Remains of the Day, Never Let Me Go, or A Pale View of Hills before you give up on Ishiguro. It will have the same dreamy atmosphere but a much more interesting plot with better developed characters.
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