“Let me return to the question that is of genuine interest… ‘What is a great butler?’”
If one is not to judge a book by its cover, how is one to feel when opening a book that says both “Winner of the Booker Prize” and “Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature” on it? Naturally, I opened the pages with great expectations, and was taken aback to be reading a stream-of-consciousness narrative from the point-of-view of an old-fashioned, cold-hearted butler.
My first wave of amazement came when I was able to compare The Remains of the Day with Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Both novels were written so deeply from the perspective of the main character that one has to admire the author’s ability to truly think and write from the character’s perspective: they must’ve become their protagonists in order to create them (though in the case of Crime and Punishment, one might worry about Dostoyevsky becoming Raskolnikov).
My second surprise came later in the book, when I realised that the cold-hearted butler may have been a living, feeling person after all. Ishiguro slips these clues subtly into cracks, planting the seed with the reader, but never revealing too much from the butler, who “must be seen to inhabit his role, utterly and fully; he cannot be seen casting it aside one moment simply to don it again the next as though it were nothing more than a pantomime costume”. The feeling grew into fondness and, finally, sorrow for a man whose life work may be seen as nothing more than a waste of time.
“Surely it is enough that the likes of you and me at least try to make a small contribution count for something true and worthy.”
Yes, Mr. Stevens, it is enough. It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I wish you the best for your motoring journey back home.