I finished Ishiguro‘s famous Never Let Me Go last night, while battling with my mysterious stomach pain. Luckily the pain subsided every half and hour or so, and my concentration on my reading was, though not at its optimal best, good enough to let me devour in its beauty.
But the book is rather a disappointment, that’s how I feel. I read Ishiguro’s Nocturnes and thought that it was one of a kind – heart rendering and moving. And I was expecting more, since, well, this is his novel, and was in the Man Booker finalists list after all. A masterpiece it should be.
Maybe, though I am not sure how much truth there is in this proposition, the book received that much of attention due to its capturing storyline, streamlining perfectly the sci-fi bit and the drama. He touches perfectly the emotional parts, the what-ifs of a scientific breakthrough that once shocked the world.
But again, it is still a frustrating reading – measuring from how long it took for me to actually finish the book (three nights), and my impatience that I have to flip through the endings because it was too slow-moving, an act I rarely do in the case of a good book.
I like the suspense, yes. The intriguing plot, too. And how he broke the news to me of what I wanted to know. But I don’t feel the way I feel when I read Nocturnes though he is the usual genius in putting some thoughts that are common to us into words.
Maybe I expected too much, because I was so deeply inspired and moved by the first of his that I read.
But I’m moving on to unwrap his next book I bought, which means I’m still in love him nevertheless.