an incredibly funny and bitter 1995 novel about an idyllic european city undergoing a cultural crisis. this book is relentless in its effort to confuse you. at no point do the book’s strange conventions explain or justify themselves - it’s on you to make sense of it. combine Kafka’s Amerika, Calvino’s If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler, and your most vivid dream from childhood and you’ll have some idea of how challenging and spellbinding this book is. Ishiguro doesn’t give a FUCK about following literary conventions, tying things up neatly, or holding the reader’s hand, and that’s what i love about it.
