This post is part of my series on Kazuo Ishiguro. This post does not yet have notes from the Harry Ransom Center.

This was Ishiguro’s second novel (the one right before The Remains of the Day), and the parallels between the two are clear. In some ways, I think that ended up detracting from my experience—for much of the book, it felt almost like a lesser version of the book I loved so much, a precursor that helped Ishiguro develop and eventually write The Remains of the Day.

After all, one of the best parts of Ishiguro’s writing is that gradual unraveling of the painful truth the narrator is trying to shield themselves from. And for this book, I thought there was little unraveling to be done, because it was clear that the narrator was trying to overcome his guilt from his actions during the war.

Yet, at the very end, we see that perhaps the true way the narrator is trying to lie to himself is by deluding himself into thinking his actions were far more terrible and impactful than they really were (as a result of his projection from his generation’s collective guilt for the war, which we see in how they affected his son-in-laws). In some ways, this book is an inverse of The Remains of the Day—rather than deny his guilt, Ono is projecting and magnifying it.

The voice is also quite distinct from Stevens in that it is much more arrogant and less reliable. We really cannot trust anything the narrator says; it’s (almost?) on par with When We Were Orphans in how unreliable the narrator’s memory is and how he warps everything through his projection, guilt, and sense of self-importance.

However, Ono is in a very similar, constant state of denial. We can see the contrast between his words and actions (such as when he talks about how he learned to question the authority of the teacher, yet ostracized and demonized the lead pupil who had differing views from the teacher), and how that fierce loyalty and devotion manifests itself in his future actions regarding the war.

I also want to say that the title was very beautifully constructed—not just for the imagery of the floating world that is directly described in the book, but also the way the title evokes the ghostly memories that the narrator cannot help but constantly fall into (as if they are “floating” around him). And Ishiguro’s prose is as tightly written as always—overall, if I had to pick a “median” Ishiguro book as a representative of what his books are like, it would probably be this one.