Wow. Last night I finished Ishiguro's pretty much undisputed masterpiece, The Remains of the Day, which many will know through the excellent film starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson. It is an exquisite novel with once more, as ever with Ishiguro, a deluded, unreliable narrator in Stevens, an ageing Butler looking back over his life, who lies to himself and in the process lies to the reader. The construction of the novel is excellent, its dialogue diamond hard and honed to crystalline perfection and the gradual dawning of the truth, romantic or political, is absolutely devestating. I have read 5 out of Ishiguro's 6 novels so far (4 this year) and although they are all subtle, high quality works, this is without a shadow of a doubt his finest achievement: a meditation on class, love, free will and dignity that will make you question your own motives and make you make the most of the remains of your day.
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