Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro is the literary equivalent of having a gigantic fudge cake set down in front of you, but you know that whoever made it spit in the batter. But here’s the thing: I’d still eat it.

I had actually heard of the movie before I knew of the book and from what I heard, the movie was very good. Naturally, then, you could assume that the book is better because everyone knows the book is always better than the movie. The book begins innocently enough, with students from Hailsham, a private boarding school in England, going about their idyllic daily lives. Slowly, Ishiguro drops hints that the situation at Hailsham doesn’t add up: teachers lurking about the halls, the distinct lack of parental involvement, the abnormal emphasis on creative output from students. By the end of part one, you become aware that the students are not so much being raised, as they are cultivated for their healthy vital organs. Ishiguro opens up a big can of worms here, delving into the ethics of scientific progression, cloning and sacrificing one human life for another. The reader walks side-by-side Kathy and the other students as they slowly become aware of their purpose. Each chapter ending seduces the reader with another salacious clue, coaxing you to read just one more. In this way, Ishiguro successfully positions the reader to experience the same confusion, the same realizations and the same hope that their “lives” could be spared.

And then…nothing.

Kathy and Tommy’s theories hit a brick wall. There is no escape, no deferral of their scientific role and no purpose to their artwork from Hailsham. The book is either a thorough study in tragedy or a sloppy ending to a book that forced the reader to become so invested on the final outcome that they are willing to overlook the simplistic narrative. This can be taken further: are we as readers conditioned to expect the worst, the most complex, the most uphill-iness of battles? Perhaps less and less readers expect a clean ending to a story, or more specifically, a clean ending to a concept or theory introduced in the beginning. Books that question generally do better than books that answer. While there seems to be a move away from these conventional narrative rhythms, Ishiguro employs them so heavily in this book, it proves to be incongruous to the style he sets for himself. The subject matter is another area of concern. Ishiguro illuminates the complexities of scientific and human ethics, all of which could be shattered into a million seeds for thought. Yet he ends up denying the birth of almost every single one of these ideas, leaving them to gestate then, eventually, flatline.

I have an undeniable urge to call this book “Dystopian Lite”. And I just did. If you appreciate the “whimper” over the “bang”, this book’s for you. It’s definitely enjoyable over all, but the unmistakable flavor of let-down lurks in the bottom of the pan.