THE BURIED GIANT – Kazuo Ishiguro (2015)

The Buried GiantThe Buried Giant had been lying on my TBR for more than a year, and Ishiguro winning the 2017 Nobel Prize for Literature prompted me to pick it up from the pile. The Swedish Academy issued a very short press release on October 5th, saying no more than Kazuo Ishigoru to be an author “who, in novels of great emotional force, has uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world”.

There are two important elements in that statement, the personal and the political, and I’ll get back to them in a moment. First, some basics on the book, and a rumination on intertextuality.

The Buried Giant is the seventh novel of Ishiguro, published 10 years after his previous book, Never Let Me Go. In the decade in between, he wrote a short story collection with 5 stories and worked on lyrics for Stacey Kent. He was also involved in the film adaptation of Never Let Me Go. I’m not saying Ishiguro is a slacker. On the contrary: this book doesn’t feel like a rushed product to satisfy the publisher or the market. He wrote a first version, wasn’t satisfied, and only after some time returned to it again, starting all over. That shows: the prose is excellent – not necessarily poetic as one might expect from ‘literary’ fiction, but simply on point and fitting. (See the first paragraphs of my review of Central Station for my thoughts on the speculative fiction-literature division.)

The Buried Giant is – atypical for Ishiguro – a fantasy story, set in a post-Arthurian Britain, 6th century or so, about an elderly couple that sets out on a journey to the village of their lost son. The landscape is sparsely mythological, featuring a dragon, a dash of pixies, an ogre here and there. There’s magic at work too: people don’t remember much, and the elderly husband and wife only barely remember their son.

You don’t need to be an Arthurian scholar to appreciate this story. Gawain pops up, but it’s a geriatric version of that knight, and he wouldn’t be out of place in a Monty Python sketch. There’s a few references to Arthur himself, and Merlin too, but that’s it, and their roles in this story are made crystal clear. No need for Wikipedia.

There’s a tendency of readers to think of all serious literature as a puzzle, and who can blame them? The New Testament is full of references to the Old Testament, and both modernists’ as postmodernists’ favorite device seemed to be intertextual allusion. I don’t care much for that aspect of writing anymore: the depth that’s supposedly added that way is often just surface level depth, make-up that adds a thin layer only. If a story needs more than itself to make its case, it’s probably weak. I’m all for books being self-contained.

Back in the days, when everybody had indeed read the same stuff, it must have worked. But those days are long gone, more and more books are being published every year, and a writer simply can’t suppose his or her readers to have read it all, not even what passes for the canon. And what of all those movies, series & songs out there? Hypertext novels once seemed a promising solution, but a more important side-effect of our 21st century, mushrooming culture is that its ungraspable vastness makes clear what intertextuality often actually is: intellectual bragging and/or inconsequential fun. Not all that different from the namedropping Silverberg poked fun at in Dying Inside.

It’s sad that I’ve read readers comment on The Buried Giant not feeling fully apt to understand it. People play their own opinions down – I’m not sure I got everything out of it as I’m not well versed in Arthurian lore. I’m pretty sure Ishiguro would find that sad too, so let’s not talk of Arthur any longer, and let me repeat: you can enjoy this book regardless of your scholarly status, and there’s nothing wrong with treating the occasional reference as just that: occasional, a supplementary gimmick, not relevant to the core of the story.


The Nobel Prize Academy praised Ishiguro for two things: his emotional force, and the fact that he disenchants our illusions about our connections to the world.

The emotional impact of The Buried Giant is, like all books, partly in the eye of the beholder. The main emotional focus is on the love between Axl and Beatrice, the elderly protagonists.

I felt the first 50 and the final 100 pages to work best emotionally. That leaves for a wasteland of about 200 pages. It is maybe no coincidence these best parts feature a narrator that’s clearly present. The tone in the beginning of the book is determined by an omniscient narrator that makes his presence felt, using lots of modal verbs, fittingly very English, and not unlike Susanna Clarke. Throughout the book this voice takes a backseat and disappears, but so does the emotional connection I had with the characters. It’s not the only reason for that fact, but the sympathetic narrator managed to evoke sympathy indeed, and as this narrative mode wanned Axl & Beatrice seemingly became stock characters in story that started to drag occasionally. Tone is important.

The last chapter is told in first person, by one of the characters, similarly using questions and modal phrases to ponder his own and the other characters’ actions. It is this chapter that packs the greatest emotional punch, and the one that generated lines like the one in USA Today‘s review: “A literary tour de force so unassuming that you don’t realize until the last page that you’re reading a masterpiece.”

Aside from love, the other emotional component is that of getting older, withering away, dying, possibly the care for a partner with dementia as well. Obviously these two components are entwined.

I have to say as a book about a long-lasting relationship, The Buried Giant really works. Yet I feel the drag in the middle part doesn’t do this part of the story justice, and it’s as if Ishiguro couldn’t find the perfect balance between the adventure story, the political musings about memory & violence, and the portrait of love.

On top of that, here and there the book’s stitches show, and The Buried Giant feels more like a succession of – at times Gene Wolfish – short stories, rather than one story. This is due to the nature of the overarching tale: a quest, yes, traveling from place to place, which enforces this episodic nature. An understandable choice of Ishiguro, and one that generally keeps things varied, but a bit at the expense of emotional development too.

There’s only two or maybe three instances I truly felt Ishiguro had something insightful to offer, a perspective on love I hadn’t previously thought about as such, and I guess, all things considered, including the great ending, that’s more than most books do.

It’s clear Ishiguro takes a rather biological, material stand on love: shared memories aren’t really necessary to love one another, and the physical act of being together (not only, not even primarily, in the sexual way) is what counts. A collective past, a shared life’s story, is obviously a nice bonus, but I think I agree, for what is a couple? Two people that are, literally, together. The final page of the novel only reinforces that notion.


The other ingredient of this book is quite heavy-handed. Ishiguro “uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world”, read the Nobel Prize press release. The particular illusion The Buried Giant is about, is our relation with the pasts of violence on a state (or tribe) level. “A profound meditation on trauma, memory, and the collective lies nations and groups create to expiate their guilt”, wrote The Boston Globe. How we cope with war, in short.

Technically, Ishiguro’s execution is perfect. Just as Christopher Nolan’s movie Memento, the novel’s structural choices make us readers experience first hand what it feels like to not know what went before, and the result often is indeed a dreamlike affair, as other reviewers have pointed out.

The fact that this book is also about forgetting war is no real spoiler, as Ishiguro was quite straightforward about the novel’s content in an interview with The Guardian, published a bit before its publication.

“What are the main mechanisms by which a country like Britain or France or Japan remembers? Is it by means of the literature, is it by means of museums, is it official history books? What is it? It’s some mixture of all those things, but in the end it comes down to what ordinary people actually have in their heads about what happened in their country,”

In the same interview, Alex Clark – the journalist – continues quoting Ishiguro, coupled with paraphrase:

Along with the rest of the world, [Ishiguro] had watched as Yugoslavia disintegrated, and as genocide claimed at least 800,000 lives in Rwanda;  (…) “you had concentration camps, death camps, massacres like Srebrenica, right in the middle of Europe. And the astonishing thing then – and I suppose looking back it shouldn’t have been so astonishing – was the fact that people, neighbours who’d been living with each other for decades, just turned on each other and massacred each other. (…) And these were people who’d been eating in each other’s houses, and looking after each other’s children.”

He is interested, too, in how countries such as Rwanda and South Africa are able to move on from such widespread violence and trauma. “To some extent,” he notes, “you’ve got to abandon justice and grievance to break the cycle of violence.”


But also feeding into Ishiguro’s thought processes were examples of a collective reaction to trauma from further back. Japan in the immediate aftermath of the second world war gave him the setting for his first two novels; he has clearly been long preoccupied by what he calls the country’s “really strange version” of what happened during the conflict: “Japan as a nation wiped out the fact that they were aggressors in the second world war and that they rampaged through a lot of China and east Asia slaughtering people. Most people in Japan remember the second world war as a great tragedy which climaxed with two atomic bombs.”

Yet I’m not sure whether this is a “profound explanation”. Ishiguro says more interesting things about it in the interview, than in the entire novel. Just as the title’s buried giant is a metaphor that gets a clear explanation, the novel’s content is rather easy, the questions it asks rather straightforward.

In short, it boils down to this:

  1. Revenge for past slaughter is a powerful driving force for new conflicts.
  2. Better to forget?
  3. Maybe, forgetting doesn’t really do justice to the past victims.

That’s about it. I find this to be rather trivial, especially since Ishiguro does not answer the question. Both sides in conflicts tend to play down their role, and nobody likes the true horrors of war and violent death in detail in their newspapers – it’s not rocket science.

Questions about how the shaping of a collective memory works simply are not explored in the novel, not at all. Those who, on account of that Guardian interview would look for deep sociological or psychological insights on the matter in the novel, will not find any.

As such, the simple, magical forgetting in Ishiguro’s medieval Britain is a rather thin metaphor, explaining nothing, exploring nothing. A meditation, maybe, but not a productive one, one that just scratches the surface.

In the same Guardian interview, Ishiguro continues about writers taking a political stance in other media, like a newspaper essay:

“I did it once, right at the beginning of my career,” he replies. “It was the anniversary of one of the atomic bombs, and the Guardian asked me to write a piece about the atomic bomb’s relationship to literature. This was back in 1983 or something, when the cold war was still on, and people were much more preoccupied about nuclear weapons.” (…) “I sat down and I thought, well, I don’t really feel strongly about anything, but I’d better work myself up into some position, and write a piece as though I do feel very strongly about something to do with it. I came up with this concept of the pornography of seriousness, that some people would often bring in issues like the Holocaust or the atomic bombs into otherwise fairly ordinary stories, so that the stories would be given a serious dimension.” (…) “But this was something I hadn’t been going around fuming about, or even thinking about until I got asked.” He laughs. “But if you read that piece now, you’d think I had; a guy who was born in Nagasaki who felt the whole nuclear thing had been exploited by people just trying to lend spurious weight and seriousness to their otherwise rather banal piece of fiction.”

It’s ironic that in The Buried Giant Ishiguro actually did just that what he describes at the end of the quote above: tack a war theme onto a rather sparse story about an elderly couple coping with their looming death.

So I guess I agree only half with the Swedish Academy, and “my inability to fall in love with” the novel did not come from the ending and its emotional, bleak message about love (as Neil Gaiman wrote in his review of the book The New York Times), but rather from the fact that the other part of the allegory – the sweeping generalizations about how humans/nations deal with trauma – ultimately remains empty, smothering The Buried Giant with its weight and seriousness.


10 responses to “THE BURIED GIANT – Kazuo Ishiguro (2015)

  1. Pingback: A dark tale for a dark age – Calmgrove

  2. Well, this is a fascinating review, thoughtful as all your reviews are, and relentless in its assessment. I take all your points: absolutely “no need for Wikipedia” because (like most medieval ‘Arthurian’ literature) the names and settings are thin materials to clothe a non-Arthurian body; but there is also a sense of the Emperor’s new clothes here: is the “illusory sense of connection with the world” that the Swedish Academy talks about itself no illusion but in effect nothing at all covering a totally banal body?

    And yet, what I retain from reading this novel is this: it is haunting, in that I keep returning to it in my mind. It’s as though I’m retracing Axl and Beatrice’s steps, trying to find significance in their encounters. Maybe there’s no real significance; maybe it’s not the great novel that people claim; maybe the truths about love and war and collective forgetfulness are tritely told; but I can’t help returning to it. Perhaps, as I suggested in my review, it’s an old person’s novel (both Ishiguro and I are around a similar age) and those issues are memes that we obsess about.

    But it’ll be some time — maybe never — before I think of rereading it.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Thanks for the kind words, they’re much appreciated.

      I should’ve stressed the emotional parts of the novel lingered in my mind for some time as well, the ending and the effect it has is a tour de force – it’s a strange novel in that respect. The USA Today’s talk of an unassuming masterpiece has some truth to it. I’m almost hitting 40, and that part worked for me – than again, I’ve felt old my entire life, so that says nothing 🙂

      I might reread it someday too, I’m pretty sure having already experienced the ending would make it a stronger read.

      It’s interesting what you remark about the book’s similarities to most medieval Arthurian, being non-Arthurian too. I hadn’t thought of that, and I couldn’t, as I’m not familiar enough with the medieval stuff. It makes Ishiguro’s choice for this setting even more fitting.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Hm. I’ll read Never Let Me Go first (have you read that one?), and might one day move on to this one. But Arthurian fantasy doesn’t interest me much.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m not sure how this book was marketed, but the fact that the setting is Arthurian and it features an old Gawain is really not that important at all, so that might convince you.

      I haven’t read anything else by Ishiguro, I’ve only see the screen version of The Remains Of The Day, which I liked at the time, but don’t remember much about.


  4. A very insightful review, and very interesting – although for me the book was, similarly to what Calmgrove has said above, more about the emotional impact of being together and being alone, about being made whole by a relationship and being fractured by the relationship’s end, than it was about forgetfulness and the war trauma. I admit, these parts were… maybe not banal, but not overly significant – still, even this kind of approach to these themes is a rarity in a popular genre where war is usually the domain of very shallow type of heroes.
    To me, the post-Arthurian setting was an additional value – to see the Arthurian myth treated with such irreverence, going as far as picturing it as the deepest trauma of the British nation – well, this is a bold move in times where old myths come back as sanctified truths (see Brexit and the intended Britain’s return to old imperial glory).
    I also need to add that I have read The Buried Giant long before Ishiguro got his Nobel prize – and so I got to reading it without any assumptions on its quality or value. And knowing my contrarian nature the Nobel would actually serve me as a tool to poke holes in Ishiguro’s work and as a means to criticize it ;).

    Liked by 2 people

    • Thanks, you make some interesting points, only making the novel better in hindsight. The book’s main strenght is the relationship indeed, but as the entire dynamic of forgetfulness, the mist, Querig the she-dragon, and the musings of both Gawain and Wistan take such a central role in the mechanics of the plot, and take up quite some page time as well, as you say, overtly significant, I couldn’t help but be annoyed by it. But it is as you say, and as I’ve coincidentally written in my previous review (of Leckie’s Provenance), violence is too often unquestioned in speculative fiction.

      I’m not sure how I approached the book at first, maybe I expected too much indeed, but as I was really hooked the first 50 pages, I think I gave it a fair chance and judged it by the standards it set for itself those first 50 pages. On Goodreads I gave it 3 stars, meaning “I liked it” in their rating system.

      Liked by 2 people

  5. > I haven’t read anything else by Ishiguro, I’ve only see the screen version of The Remains Of The Day.
    Me too. And I haven’t read The Buried Giant either – and maybe I won’t now. But what you say is very much on-the-ball and chimes with my impression of TROTD – which (with one foot on the autism spectrum) I found painfully poignant: so painful in fact it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.
    I read somewhere that women buy novels “to have an emotional experience” (which makes it a sort of Adrenalin/Dopamine fix, I guess?) Well, Ishiguro can certainly deliver that – in 50ml ampoules! But has he absorbed and digested the tragedy he recounts, like Flaubert in Madame Bovary, re-expressing it through his skin as it were? Or has he merely gone out and captured it like a tropical butterfly? In TROTD I got the impression it was the latter, and ditto with regard to your crit.
    TROTD, too, hits on a significant British theme: the English landed gentry: their relationship with their servants contrasted with their pre-war flirtation with the Nazis and their latter-day valkyries. And uses it as a wide-screen backdrop to a lilliput story of a below-stairs romance that never really happens. Again I get the impression of Ishiguro the tourist, bearing home his prize: a fish-eye picture of the English heaven-born lord and his butler – which is really rather superficial: a cultural Noh-mask which never gets down to the flesh and bone.
    Perhaps I’m being unfair: letting a residual racial prejudice persuade me that someone with a Japanese name cannot possibly examine the rich deep culture of England and come away with anything but a superficial impression. Like Pussycat-Pussycat, he can go up to London to look at the Queen, but he only has eyes for the little mouse under the chair. Which misleads me into denying Ishiguro’s prize-winning trans-cultural achievement. Ishiguro’s Arthurian Britain may be a Noh-mask, but it sounds like the author can flex it and make it speak. Maybe even talk some sense.
    There again: was the pre-war English aristocracy anything more in real life than walking, talking hollow masks of dry tradition?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks for that elaborate comment, you eloquently raise some really interesting points.

      As for Ishiguro as a tourist: he’s been living in England since he was 5. Maybe someone with a partly outsider perspective can make more sharp observations? Either way, TBG is not so much about being British, it’s just set in a British setting. And moreover: who today has visited Avalon of old? Aren’t we all tourists in history, and especially in speculative history?

      I don’t believe Ishiguro has lived the tragic love tale he recounts, he simply doesn’t have the necessary age, so I guess he indeed has not absorbed and digested it. Your image of the tropical butterfly maybe explains why it the punch of the emotion is so condensed to the final pages of this book.

      Liked by 1 person

  6. Pingback: Weighing a pig doesn't fatten it.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s