Kazuo Ishiguro’s dystopian science-fiction novel, Klara and the Sun, with its deep philosophical notes, a pinch of mythology and a dash of mystery certainly ticks a lot of boxes.
Contemplating the essence of this novel – and yes, it does require something of a post-mortem once you’ve put it down – I was compelled to revisit his 1989 The Remains of the Day in order to discover some of the origins of Klara’s themes. In reflection, not only are there similar themes and a comparable vehicle of storytelling recurrent in both novels, but also pronounced similarities between Stevens, the protagonist in The Remains of the Day (a subservient, circumspect and ultra-observant butler) and the eponymous character of Klara, an ‘Artificial Friend’.
Like Stevens, Klara is the first-person narrator of this tale and tells it from a quasi-emotionless outsider’s observations. Set in a dystopian ‘near future’, Klara is purchased for Josie (a young teenage girl who lives with her working mother) to keep her company and prevent her from being lonely. She is the empathic server who is tasked to ensure that the often tired and sickly teenager’s every need is met and catered for.
A recurring theme in Ishiguro’s work is the often-underemphasised silent killer: loneliness. Here he again tackles the issues of abandonment, existentialism and what it is that makes a person unique and ‘good’, as well as tolerance, particularly society’s clemency – or lack thereof – in judging people’s choices and ways of life.
Indeed, it is Klara’s narration as an outsider, foreign to this world, that I found most intriguing as she analyses the often-bizarre customs and behaviours of human beings, explores her own relationship with her surroundings – and with the sun – and, ultimately, questions the purpose of human existence.
It is, perhaps, an appropriate novel to read at a time when we find our world and way of life under attack from a devastating pandemic, which has necessitated increased government control over our daily lives. Indeed, one might argue that we find ourselves on the knife edge of our own very real form of dystopia. The warning signs are certainly there: a devastating recent reminder of our own human frailty, the fragility of our economies, a growing disregard for the environment, an apparent leaning towards othering and even fascism, the list goes on... And as if these weren’t enough, there is also an alarming increase in our dependence on (and therefore the threat of being controlled by) technology.
Perhaps the use of futuristic milieus in both Never Let Me Go and Klara and the Sun, replete with robots, clones and artificial intelligence, is appropriate in Ishiguro’s objective of exposing the fragility of human behaviours and choices. Both these works warn of the dangers of trying too hard to ‘better’ the world at any cost and using any device or artificial means to do so without considering the consequences.
In running the risk of a spoiler here, for me the very essence of this tale lies in Klara’s realisation that what makes a person is not necessarily that which can be replicated in terms of his or her heart, personality, thoughts or decisions, but in the one thing that cannot be cloned, captured or artificially replicated: the way in which those closest to them love them. And it is this unmanufacturable love, Klara realises, that makes humans the unique entities that they are.
It therefore makes sense that the marketeers of the book found it appropriate to probe potential buyers with a back-cover teaser of: ’Do you believe in the human heart? I don’t mean simply the organ, obviously. I’m speaking in the poetic sense. The human heart. Do you think there is such a thing? Something that makes each of us special and individual?’
Kazuo Ishiguro does just that, he questions and leads the reader to take a good look at their own life in terms of integrity, intention and mindfulness and the ultimate meaning of our existence.
