I finished Never Let Me Go by Kazuro Ishiguro over the weekend. Fantastic. Wonderful. Now I’m going to use my Amazon money to buy all of his books. If you haven’t read it, go straight to your bookstore, do not pass go, do not collect R200. I mean it. I don’t even own this book, it is burrowed, and I’m going to buy it because I know I’ll have to read it again.
You know what I love most about this book is the way the writer is lost. You don’t even feel the writer. It’s just Kathy telling her story of growing up, of attending Hailsham, of being friends with Ruth and Tommy. Their lives. The fact that they are clones grown only to provide organs for humans is just what it is. Their lives are what is important. Their everyday lives within the context they find themselves. Such a horrifying, heartbreaking, story told so simply.
I was grappling some months ago with the concept of voice. Must a writer have one voice? I can see how silly that was. I think we must be voiceless. Or is it multi-voiced? I have all these ways of writing, depending on the story, depending on my mood, sometimes even depending on what I’m writing for- I had thought, perhaps, somehow I wasn’t being true. That I was still searching for my voice. But now I think maybe I’ll never find it. Maybe it’s not there at all. Maybe it’s not supposed to be.