Like Stevens, its central character and narrator, Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day is impeccably controlled; unlike Stevens, it's perfectly aware of the import of what it's doing, and it's in the gap between the character's and the author's understandings of Stevens' situation, and of the parallel historical developments in 1930s through 50s England (most particularly, the decline of the British Empire and aristocracy amidst, and, it seems to be suggested, in no small part because of, the persistence of the old class system), that this very fine novel works.
In its carefully observed, often only obliquely suggested (because presented through the distorting filter of Stevens' own perspective) portrait of Stevens' life and the tragedy of his (non-)relationship with Miss Kenton (staged in a series of hazy recollections which have a nostalgic air despite the formal, distanced way in which the butler recounts them), the novel is genuinely moving and very sad, but what makes it great is the way that this serves as a microcosm for wider social trends in the society where the story is played out. The Remains of the Day is deceptive - easy to read and apparently simple in design though it is, it's a novel of great craft and insight...really good.
