This is the only novel I've read by Kazuo Ishiguro, and granted, it may not be representative of his work. It left me kind of cold, even though it had moments that were really nice. It's one of those novels where the sum of the parts didn't really add up to a satisfying novel for me. I think I was disappointed because I thought I was being tuned up by an unreliable narrator for a really BIG denouement, but it sort of pooped out in the end. As it turns out, the narrator-detective Christopher Banks was only moderately delusional and the effect was sort of--well--boring. Oh, well, they can't all be gems.
I'm not sure what I want to read next. Perhaps Richard Ford. He's just published the last novel in a trilogy that I've not started, so start at the beginning with The Sportswriter. It's that time of year when curling up with a good book is especially cozy. The holidays are almost here, and it seems like it's been such whirlwind of activity lately. I've been really fortunate to see so many great musicians this year: Marah, Jackie Greene, Joe Ely, Tom Waits, Bruce Cockburn, Eric Clapton, Barenaked Ladies, and next week--Ozomatli and Los Lonely Boys. My goal is to catch the elusive Kelly Willis somewhere next year. I keep hearing whispers that she's been working in the studio. I didn't get to see the Raconteurs, but it was getting really hard to squeeze in yet another out-of-town concert trip. I can start plotting for next year.