What a subtle, poignant, sad book.
In post-WWII England, Stevens, a butler of a formerly great aristocratic house takes a road trip through the country and has the opportunity to reflect on his tenure of servitude. Through these memories — many with another employee, Miss Kenton — Stevens sketches a life left rather unlived through the endless pursuit of dignity, that intangible, elite quality embodied by the foremost butlers.
What is dignity? No one can put it into words, not even Stevens, but based on his recollections, it seems to be gained at the expense of emotion, empathy, and indeed a measure of humanity. It’s the unwavering display of competence in the face of trials, and perfunctory compliance even through the completion of questionably immoral tasks.
But this book isn’t an indictment on Stevens; it’s a slow unraveling of truths wrapped in moments of time, and even when Stevens begins to realize the gravity of many of those truths, he’s so conditioned by his commitment to dignity, so married to his position, that what could have been an emotional watershed moment is quite tempered by his stoicism. It’s heartbreaking, and yet perfect. Ishiguro’s voice as Stevens is wholly realized and completely true to character at every turn.
I suspect this will be a book that I’ll read again some time in the future and appreciate it more. It’s a slow burn that requires careful attention, which I don’t always have.
