First, I loathe the scenario when serious literary authors write science fiction. Though in their hands it's always Speculative fiction. Almost universally, one has to then hear the hosannas of the mainstream critics hailing this work as if others haven't been writing in this genre for years.

So I admit a bias, but this book's awfulness goes far beyond that.

It's simply unbelievable. The fact that these people live in the world and somehow remain utterly oblivious to their situation well into their 30's. That they undergo what they undergo, and do so willingly, and yet are free to move about the country with nary a thought of just checking out is imbecilic.

More damningly, It's inhuman.

Ishiguro's gives the characters a fantasy about deferrals and love but somehow never gives them the idea of freedom or rebellion, even though they study art and literature voluminously.

Never Let Me Go is the worst kind of sci-fi bc it take one idea and looks at it under a microscope, forgoing how this one idea is going to effect the rest of the world, but in Ishiguro's defense he never examines the rest of the world. He can't bc his asinine idea would fall apart.

Real world example. Gutenberg creates printing press. Books become available to the masses. The Bible can be read by many instead of a few. Martin Luther decides his reading of the Bible is closer to God's truth than the Papists. People are stirred up by this interpretation and then many leaflets that are put out in defense of the failed monk. Wars ensue - the Enlightenment occurs.

In Ishiguro's world, Gutenberg makes the printing press and all that happens is people devote their lives to printing books. End of story.

The book is barely two characters and one is so naive that she quickly becomes tiring, but then again the author needs her to be child-like bc anyone would start asking a whole lot of questions long before any get asked.

I knew nothing about this book before reading it, and I recommend everyone doing the same. There are so many childish comments in the review section that make awful summary of this book.
Just read it, and you will know why Kazuo Ishiguro won the Nobel Prize in Literature even if you don’t like the book.

Overall boring and not really enjoyable. The entire thing is just so juvenile and pedestrian. Even Ishiguro's trademark amazing prose is completely absent from this work. You don't care for the characters who themselves are insults to cardboard cutouts. Definitely Ishiguro's worst book. The man who wrote "The Remains of the Day" and "The Unconsoled" is dead, this novel is but an afterthought in a bibliography of solid works.

This is a story of growing up in a boarding school, making friends, experiencing triumphs and suffering disappointments. That sounds like it could be my story or yours, but it’s different. Kathy H. is different, and so are her friends. They’ve each been given a role to play in society, and the details of that role, that dreadful role, unfold slowly over the course of the novel.

The pace is slow and the story is subtle, so I can see why it doesn’t appeal to everyone. But for me, the writing was like music. The simple words flowed and I was transported--carried off and in the end returned changed in some indescribable way.

I kept thinking of Mozart’s Requiem as I read.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPlhK...
It is a devastating piece of music, to the point you almost want to turn it off, but it’s so beautiful that you have to keep listening. This story was like that for me.

Despite the deeply disturbing storyline, what I found most haunting was the way Ishiguro gives his characters universal feelings. For example:
“'I can see,’ Miss Emily said, ‘that it might look as though you were simply pawns in a game. It can certainly look like that. But think of it. You were lucky pawns. There was a certain climate and now its gone...’

‘It might be just some trend that came and went,’ I said. ‘But for us, it’s our life.’”

We all sometimes feel that life is meaningless, that we are just pawns in a game that someone else controls. We’re just another patient with a troubling disease, or another student who doesn’t pass the class. Our feelings are ignored, but to us they are of utmost importance. We can all relate to this frustration.

Kazuo Ishiguro is a very special writer. Even though it is a completely different story, this book felt so much like The Remains of the Day. Why? I think it’s that they both explore something we are terrified of: loss. The Remains of the Day is the story of a time and place, but it is primarily about a character that loses something. He loses his chance. Never Let Me Go is also this kind of story. It is of a time and place, fortunately a not (yet) real place, but it is about a character who loses something. What she loses is something she never got to have. Mr. Stephens and Kathy H. may not be aware of what they have lost, but we the readers are, and when we inhabit them and experience their loss, it’s shattering.

I always try to read a book before seeing a movie, but with these two Ishiguro stories, I saw the movie first. I don’t know if that makes a difference. When I saw the movies, they felt like a sort of postcard of a place I wanted to know more about--I was intrigued and haunted. Reading the books was like going there, and the haunting turned to heartbreak.

Are his other stories similar? Can I handle another experience like this? Can I resist?

~~~~
i heard many good things about this book. wishing a good start for february

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وچقدر تلخ

'When I watched you dancing that day, I saw something else. I saw a new world coming rapidly. More scientific, efficient, yes. More cures for the old sicknesses. Very good. But a harsh, cruel world. And I saw a little girl, her eyes tightly closed, holding to her breast the old kind world, one that she knew in her heart could not remain, and she was holding it and pleading, never to let her go. That is what I saw. It wasn’t really you, what you were doing, I know that. But I saw you and it broke my heart. And I’ve never forgotten.’

This was quite an upsetting and bleak book. It was utterly compelling and simultaneously awful. It will stay with me for a long time. My next book will need to be rousing and cheerful..

Somtimes sad is ok. If you are looking for something "Ok sad", might I recommend Sad Keanu.

n  n

See it is sad, but kind of funny and people can have fun and have had fun for quite sometime.

Sad Keanu in a boat

n  n

Sad Keanu watching football

n  n

and my personal favourite Sad Keanu with panda.

n  n

With "Never Let Me Go" there is no fun to be had here,none. Not only is it sad and depressing as shit, it is also cold. It is set in England which goes without saying...damp(the worst kind of cold). The teachers are cold, Ruth is cold, the doctors, the nurses, us as a society,COLD.Like the friggen North Pole. This is a really well written book, I added an extra star because I am acknowledging the writing, its the suicidal thoughts afterwards that are killing the star rating here and I was not looking for rainbows and unicorns, but when I finished this I just thought "God Damn I am so sad now" So I want to be very clear I found this DE-PRESS-ING.

Last night I dreamt I went to Hailsham again—oh wait, wrong book. Ishiguro discussing porn—check—but still my least favorite of his books. More so than any of other book I've read by him, literally nothing happens. Which is not always a bad thing, but in this one I felt I needed some stakes.

People tend to look back on childhood with the opinion that the things they laughed about, and cried about, and feared, were silly—they were children, and then they grew up. But this isn't the case with Kathy H. Looking back, her childhood seems to be full of significance and hidden meaning, almost to the point of obsession—she often digresses for several pages only to return with 'back to what I was saying.' I kept reading, however, because there was something always nagging, and I kept turning the pages even though I wasn’t exactly sure why, hoping that there would be some sort of payoff at the end—it never came. Ishiguro does widen the lens near the conclusion of the book, letting us know why we're supposed to care about any of this in the larger scheme of things, but by then it is almost too late. It felt as if what could have been a much shorter book has been dragged out to fill pages. It's supposed to be a sort of love story, but I was never entirely convinced. Axl and Beatrice in The Buried Giant have much more going for them than Tommy and Kathy ever did.

You know that moment in the animated The Jungle Book, when Kaa sings Trusssst in meee? Well, I did it. I trusted, and trusted, but my trust is definitely beginning to wane (I know, I know, he won the Booker, and the Nobel Prize—how dare I utter such blasphemy). I prefer his earlier work.

‎دوستانِ گرانقدر، این داستان بسیار غم انگیز و ناراحت کننده، از آن دسته از داستان هایست که وجدان هر انسانِ آگاهی را به درد می آورد... داستان کودکانِ بی گناهی که در یتیم خانه و یا پرورشگاهی دور از شهر به نامِ "هالشیم" بزرگ میشوند و عده ای موجوداتِ پست و کثیف که من آنها را لایق نام انسان نمیدانم، از کودکی به این کودکان، به نوعی القا میکنند که هیچ حقی برای زندگی ندارند و زمانی که بزرگ شدند، اعضای بدنشان را در مراحل مختلف به عده ای پولدار کثیف اهدا کنند و آنها را از دنیای بیرون از پرورشگاه یا همان یتیم خانه ترسانده اند... من نمیدانم یعنی زندگی این انسانهای بیچاره که جرمشان بی سرپرست بودن بوده است، ارزشش از زندگی دیگران کمتر است!!!؟.. به نظر من اهدای عضو یک حرکت غیر انسانی و کثیف است و نباید واژهٔ زیبای هدیه و یا اهدا را بر رویِ آن گذاشت
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‎شخصیت های اصلی داستان، دو دختر به نامِ <کثی> و <روث> و همچنین پسری به نامِ <تامی> میباشند... کثی از کودکی عاشق تامی است و دوستِ او روث این را میداند، امّا از روی حسادت تامی را از دست کثی میرباید و عشق آنها را نابود میکند و امّا کثی هیچگاه اعتراضی نمیکند و عشق پاک و راستین خود را تا پایان در دل نگه میدارد
‎آنها بزرگ میشوند و کثی هنوز عضوی از بدنش را اهدا نکرده است و روث و تامی دو عضوِ بدنشان را اهدا کرده اند و دیگر با یکدیگر رابطه ای ندارند
‎اگر بخواهم در مورد این داستان بیش از این بنویسم، از جذابیتِ آن کاسته میشود
‎عزیزانم، بهتر است خودتان این داستان را بخوانید و از سرانجامِ غم انگیزِ آن آگاه شوید
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‎به امید آن روزی که انسانها برای زندگی دیگران ارزش قائل شوند و زندگی هیچ انسانی ارزشش بالاتر از زندگی انسانِ دیگر نباشد و همه بدانند که حقِ زنده ماندنِ هر انسانی به دست خود اوست و برای زندگی کسی تصمیم نگیریم و حتی اگر کسی به کما میرود برای اعضای بدن او تصمیم نگیریم و اعضای بدنش را اهدا نکنیم.... امیدوارم این را درک کنید و زندگی انسانها در این دنیا را به زندگی موهوم و خیالی و دروغینِ زندگی دیگر در آن دنیای موهوم و خیالی و آخرت و هرچه که نامش را میگذارید، نفروشیم... خرد انسانی به ما میگوید که ما تنها این دنیا را داریم.. و سخن گفتن از دنیای موهومِ پس از مرگ و بهشتِ موهوم و خیالی، تنها برای سواستفاده کردن از انسانهای ساده در تاریخ بوده و میباشد
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‎امیدوارم از خوادندنِ این داستان لذت برده و کمی در آن بیاندیشید
‎<پیروز باشید و ایرانی>

Never Let Me Go - my very first Kazuo Ishiguro read and certainly not the last.

This book is a work of sheer beauty in its writing. It haunts me still.n  n   

"Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading."

n  nNever Let Me Go is far from a breezy read, and it may not cater to everyone's taste. It's hard-hitting, melancholic, and atmospheric, with a pacing that is best savored slowly.



P.S. Please avoid reviews and spoilers for the best reading experience. I happen to have gone through a review that included spoilers in its very first line.

?/10

As we got older, we went on talking about the Gallery. If you wanted to praise someone's work, you'd say, 'That's good enough for the Gallery.' And after we discovered irony, whenever we came across any laughably bad work, we'd go: 'Oh yes! Straight to the Gallery with that one!'

You said it, Mr. I.

There is a good story here. Not a masterpiece by any means, but good enough. The problem is, it's 253 pages too long. (My edition was 263 pages.) One could work out a really splendid short story from the "remains of the day(school)" -- and then just let everyone stand back in awe because, while slightly derivative in sci-fi fashion, there are also some nice points to be made about we sorry humans. On a number of levels, it's a splendid cautionary tale to *not* let our science outstrip our conscience; an allegory of the insignificance of humanity's daily struggle; perhaps a metaphor for the complete absurdity of existence, period. Yes, some very nice moments here.

What is unforgivable to me is that I should be led by the nose on the shaggiest-of-shaggy-dog stories by an annoying little know-it-all whom Ishiguro tries his best to disguise as just a regular girl, growing up and trying to find her way. Hardly. The sound that Kathy manages to create in my head, the image that she gives, is of one of those disagreeable and obnoxious little girls who would dance around everybody in the schoolyard, sing-songing, "I know something you don't know, na na na." (For little girls like these, we somehow managed to always find a nice, deep mud puddle for them to explore, even though it hadn't rained in weeks.)

I didn't like any of the kids in the novel, in truth. They were all rather annoying to varying degrees, except maybe for Tommy, who was the most sympathetic of a sorry lot.

This was a slog for me, of epic proportion. I would read a few paragraphs and then my mind would start to wander; inevitably, I would find something really, really important that needed attention: like cleaning out the lint trap in the dryer or scrubbing out the cat litter box. (The cats have never had it so good: their boxes cleaned regularly, four-five times a day during the course of this novel, they too are now developing OCD.)

I. Forced. Myself. To. Read. Every. Page. Every. Word.

I didn't want to give up half way through on this one, because I needed to speak from a position of authority to all those in the book club who've given it 5 stars and rave about it still. I needed to be prepared, and not behave like the coward I could have been by just tossing this aside, pretending to read it, and muttering general "pshaws" at the comments in club.

I cannot forgive Mr. I. for having stolen my time so mercilessly, so cruelly.

I do intend on regaling the club with my own Judy-Bridgewater-style serenade, except this time, the singer is real. While Engelbert Humperdinck was the singer of choice for this song, for a certain generation, I thought Tom Jones was a better, .. ahem .. , literary reference.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgOuv...

Sorry, Mr. I., but I think we're through. You played me the fool with Remains of The Day. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.)

Straight to the Gallery with this one!