We’re always telling ourselves and others little lies. Sometimes we know that we do this. Sometimes we don’t. At least not right away. Perhaps a song or two awakens us. Or a sunset. Not from a silly little Hallmark Card. But a real sunset. A vulnerable sunset with character deficiencies and the kinds of colors that mix in a slightly embarrassing way, as if they’re the result of a clash of embittered personalities, instead of one master painter.
I’m in the middle of Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliant Never Let Me Go, and the story so far provokes strong reactions, though the writing is subtle, controlled, measured and very natural. Irony, cross-purposes, mixed messages and purposeful lying flash across the page. To hurt. To wound. For the sake of revenge. For the sake of elevating oneself above the fray, even if that fray is manufactured mostly by the mind.
The narrator, Kathy H, an honest liar of sorts, and wise in … Click to continue . . .