Unapologetic in Perfection
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Never Let Me Go
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I've spent the last 72 hours trying to muster up a funny spin on this one. Some clever one-liner to wrap it up in a pretty bow. A way to inject my usual nonsense into the review and make myself laugh at least once.
Instead, where I've landed is that it wouldn't be fair.
It wouldn't be fair to Ishiguro to demean this beautiful story with some cheeky remark or some unnecessary swear words just because I've apparently made being sarcastic about books a personality trait.
So I'll start this one by thanking the English Major for the recommendation.
Our small crew went on hiatus for a bit, for reasons best left outside of a blog post, and to say this book was the perfect way to come back is an understatement. There is something particularly fitting about returning to a book club with a story about memory, friendship, relationships, time, and the strange ways people accept the lives they've been given.
And somehow, Ishiguro manages to do all of that in 288 pages.
Two hundred and eighty-eight pages.
That's it.
Who would have thought that 288 pages could be so beautifully crafted, so precise, and so completely unrelenting in its storytelling? I can only imagine Ishiguro spent countless hours agonizing over every word, even if the word was "the." There is not a single sentence that feels like it is there by accident.
And perhaps the most remarkable thing is that, despite everything that happens, the story doesn't really feel like it's about the story.
It isn't about the eventual tragedy.
It isn't even really about the revelation at the center of the book.
It's about the journey.
And somehow, whatever happens at the end almost doesn't matter.
That's an incredibly difficult thing to pull off.
For about 85% of this book, I had absolutely no idea what was actually going on.
A group of kids (maybe? I think?) are living on a school campus (maybe?) where they are learning (I think?) and growing up and doing all of the incredibly ordinary things that kids do. They make friends. They develop rivalries. They obsess over relationships. They worry about how other people perceive them.
And underneath all of it is this strange feeling that something is just slightly off.
I kept waiting for the book to explain itself.
It didn't.
Instead, Ishiguro sprinkled these tiny little breadcrumbs throughout the first 200-plus pages. A word here. A comment there. A strange assumption that everyone seems to understand except the reader. Things that seemed insignificant at the time but gradually started to form a picture.
I frequently found myself thinking, What the hell is going on?
But here's the important part:
I never once thought, Hurry up and tell me.
That's what makes this so impressive.
I wouldn't call it a slow burn because that would imply there was eventually some giant explosion waiting for us. This was more like a no-burn. A steady, quiet accumulation of information where the story slowly reveals itself without ever really announcing that it's doing so. This isn't to say that there isn't a reveal, there certainly is, but, it's hard to call it a big reveal. It just . . . is.
And I loved it.
The book trusts the reader.
It doesn't hold your hand. It doesn't stop every 30 pages to explain what you should be feeling. It doesn't give you a giant flashing sign that says, "HEY, THIS PART IS IMPORTANT."
It just keeps moving.
And eventually, you realize what you've been reading.
By the end, I was near tears.
Not because the book suddenly turns into some giant emotional spectacle, but because resignation starts to settle in. The characters, now adults (I think? Maybe? Time is weird in this book), begin to understand the reality of their existence. And once that reality fully sinks in, there is no great escape plan.
No rebellion.
No last-minute loophole.
No inspirational speech where someone stands on a table and convinces everyone to fight the system.
There is just acceptance.
And somehow, that feels so much worse.
That's probably the part of the book that has stuck with me the most. The tragedy isn't simply what happens to these people. It's that they have been raised to accept it. Their entire understanding of what is normal has been constructed around an existence that, from the outside, is horrifying.
But from inside their world, it's just life.
And that's where the book becomes something much bigger than its plot.
And then there's the love story.
Or whatever the hell we want to call it.
A relationship that takes years to become what it was probably always supposed to be, only to collapse like a dying firepit just when you finally start believing there might be enough embers left to keep it going.
There is no satisfying romantic payoff.
There is no magical escape.
There is no "maybe everything will work out."
There is simply the realization that wanting something badly enough doesn't necessarily make it possible.
And yet, somehow, the book doesn't end in despair.
That's what makes it so strange.
It's devastating, but not hopeless. Sad, but not cynical. The acceptance of it all feels worse than despair because despair implies you still believe something could have been different.
These characters don't really get that luxury.
And perhaps that's why I don't have much interest in making a joke about this book.
I could. Obviously.
I've spent the last several years proving that I can find something stupid to say about almost anything I read. Give me 300 pages and I will find something to complain about. Give me 600 pages and I will probably question the author's life choices.
But this one deserves better.
As I join my third, and fourth book club (yes, that is a true statement, and yes, I apparently have a problem), I'm reminded why I keep doing this.
Books like this are the reason.
Not because they're always fun. Not because they're always entertaining. And certainly not because I always understand what the hell is happening.
But because every once in a while, someone recommends a book that sticks with you.
This was one of those books.
So, English Major, thank you.
And welcome back, book club.