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Tess McNulty on Kazuo Ishiguro
In the latest issue of The Point, Tess McNulty tries to find the source of the hypnotic power of Kazuo Ishiguro’s otherwise unremarkable prose style:
[Ishiguro’s] fictions boast little by way of vivid, external description (à la Knausgaard) or deep psychological acuity (à la Proust). But they do become strangely mesmeric in all their mundanity. The hypnotic effect can feel ineffable. And yet, it is methodical. There are visible gears at work in the gently swinging clock.
The first tool that Ishiguro uses is narrative voice. Throughout the past few years, I’ve noticed the persistence of a particular style, and especially among younger American writers. The style — which I call “In those days we were always” — appears, for example, in the openings of Ben Lerner’s Leaving the Atocha Station, Teju Cole’s Open City and Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation. It involves a sort of placid, meticulous cataloguing of diurnal routines. Leopold Bloom woke one day and decided to cook a kidney; Lerner’s Adam enacts the “first phase” of a focused “project” while making his coffee and rolling his spliff. One inspirator of this style, beyond Sebald (for Cole) and Javiar Marías (for Lerner), may be Ishiguro, whose alert, curious narrators describe almost everything in this mode of taut attunement. …
Structure, too, has a role to play. When Ishiguro was a child, he says, he didn’t read many classic novels, but he did devote himself to Sherlock Holmes. Since then, he’s written only one book that presents itself as detective fiction (When We Were Orphans). And yet all of his novels draw inspiration from that ur-form. They begin, typically, with twin mysteries: Who is this bizarre narrator? And what are the features of their world? They then proceed, not so much through events, as through accumulating clues. In a tactic borrowed from the Victorian (or TV) serial, Ishiguro anticipates each new divulgence with a preview (“but it wasn’t until tomorrow that I would understand…”).