When We Were Orphans, Kazuo Ishiguro (2001)

This deserves way more space than I’m going to give it. Formally brilliant, exquisitely executed novel demonstrating once again that Ishiguro is our contemporary master of the unreliable first-person narrator. It’s like The Good Soldier meets Austerlitz. Drags a bit toward the end, pressing its points more than it needs to, not out of nervousness, I don’t think, that we’re not following, but rather out of a kind of bored mastery, like a lion batting at her prey.

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