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The Buried Giant (Vintage International), by Kazuo Ishiguro
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A Best Book of the Year:
The Washington Post
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NPR
San Francisco Chronicle
USA Today
The Huffington Post
Kansas City Star
Financial Times
BookPage
In post-Arthurian Britain, the wars that once raged between the Saxons and the Britons have finally ceased. Axl and Beatrice, an elderly British couple, set off to visit their son, whom they haven’t seen in years. And, because a strange mist has caused mass amnesia throughout the land, they can scarcely remember anything about him.
As they are joined on their journey by a Saxon warrior, his orphan charge, and an illustrious knight, Axl and Beatrice slowly begin to remember the dark and troubled past they all share. By turns savage, suspenseful, and intensely moving, The Buried Giant is a luminous meditation on the act of forgetting and the power of memory, an extraordinary tale of love, vengeance, and war.
- Sales Rank: #24833 in Books
- Brand: Vintage Books
- Published on: 2016-01-05
- Released on: 2016-01-05
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .80" w x 5.30" l, .81 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 336 pages
- Vintage Books
Review
“Spectacular. . . . The Buried Giant has the clear ring of legend, as graceful, original and humane as anything Ishiguro has written.” —The Washington Post
“An exceptional novel. . . . The Buried Giant does what important books do: It remains in the mind long after it has been read, refusing to leave.” —Neil Gaiman, The New York Times Book Review
“Lush and thrilling, rolling the gothic, fantastical, political, and philosophical into one.” —The New Republic
“Mesmerizing. . . . A provocative, multilayered mosaic. . . . Lifetimes of myth, allegory, and epic discoveries are contained within.” —The Christian Science Monitor
“A literary tour de force so unassuming that you don't realize until the last page that you're reading a masterpiece.” —USA Today
“Splendid. . . . Excellent. . . . The Buried Giant is a simple and powerful tale of love, aging and loss.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Ishiguro is a master of the uncanny. . . . Few write about the mysteries of the human experience with such grace as Ishiguro, and his prodigious gifts are evident throughout the novel.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“Devastating . . . As emotionally ruinous an ending as any I’ve read in a very long time, and it made me circle back to the opening pages, to re-enter the strange mist of this sad and remarkable book.” —Mark O’Connell, Slate
“A profound meditation on trauma, memory, and the collective lies nations and groups create to expiate their guilt.” —The Boston Globe
“If forced at knife-point to choose my favorite Ishiguro novel, I’d opt for The Buried Giant. It uses the tropes of fantasy to set up a smoke-screen which the book then, by twists and turns, dispels. This reveal gives the book a shadow-plot, and layers of mystery . . . An ideas-enabler, a metaphor-animator.” —David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas and The Bone Clocks
“Ishiguro is a deft gut-renovator of genres, bringing fresh life and feeling to hollowed-out conventions. . . . The love story at its center shimmers with a mythic and melancholy grace.” —Vulture
“A beautiful, heartbreaking book about the duty to remember and the urge to forget.” —The Guardian (London)
“Powerful and disturbing. . . . Provokes strong emotions—and lingers long in the mind.” —The Economist
“A beautiful fable with a hard message at its core. . . . There won’t, I suspect, be a more important work of fiction published this year than The Buried Giant.” —John Sutherland, The Times (London)
“A novel of imaginative daring that, in its subtleties of tone, mood and reflection, could be the work of no other writer. . . . In the manner of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, Ishiguro has created a fantastical alternate reality in which, in spite of the extremity of its setting and because of its integrity and emotional truth, you believe unhesitatingly.” — Financial Times
About the Author
Kazuo Ishiguro’s seven previous books have won him wide renown and numerous honors. His work has been translated into more than forty languages. Both The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go have sold more than one million copies, and both were adapted into highly acclaimed films.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
You would have searched a long time for the sort of winding lane or tranquil meadow for which England later became celebrated. There were instead miles of desolate, uncultivated land; here and there rough-hewn paths over craggy hills or bleak moorland. Most of the roads left by the Romans would by then have become broken or overgrown, often fading into wilderness. Icy fogs hung over rivers and marshes, serving all too well the ogres that were then still native to this land. The people who lived nearby—one wonders what desperation led them to settle in such gloomy spots—might well have feared these creatures, whose panting breaths could be heard long before their deformed figures emerged from the mist. But such monsters were not cause for astonishment. People then would have regarded them as everyday hazards, and in those days there was so much else to worry about. How to get food out of the hard ground; how not to run out of firewood; how to stop the sickness that could kill a dozen pigs in a single day and produce green rashes on the cheeks of children.
In any case, ogres were not so bad provided one did not provoke them. One had to accept that every so often, perhaps following some obscure dispute in their ranks, a creature would come blundering into a village in a terrible rage, and despite shouts and brandishings of weapons, rampage about injuring anyone slow to move out of its path. Or that every so often, an ogre might carry off a child into the mist. The people of the day had to be philosophical about such outrages.
In one such area on the edge of a vast bog, in the shadow of some jagged hills, lived an elderly couple, Axl and Beatrice. Perhaps these were not their exact or full names, but for ease, this is how we will refer to them. I would say this couple lived an isolated life, but in those days few were “isolated” in any sense we would understand. For warmth and protection, the villagers lived in shelters, many of them dug deep into the hillside, connecting one to the other by underground passages and covered corridors. Our elderly couple lived within one such sprawling warren—“building” would be too grand a word—with roughly sixty other villagers. If you came out of their warren and walked for twenty minutes around the hill, you would have reached the next settlement, and to your eyes, this one would have seemed identical to the first. But to the inhabitants themselves, there would have been many distinguishing details of which they would have been proud or ashamed.
I have no wish to give the impression that this was all there was to the Britain of those days; that at a time when magnificent civilisations flourished elsewhere in the world, we were here not much beyond the Iron Age. Had you been able to roam the countryside at will, you might well have discovered castles containing music, fine food, athletic excellence; or monasteries with inhabitants steeped in learning. But there is no getting around it. Even on a strong horse, in good weather, you could have ridden for days without spotting any castle or monastery looming out of the greenery. Mostly you would have found communities like the one I have just described, and unless you had with you gifts of food or clothing, or were ferociously armed, you would not have been sure of a welcome. I am sorry to paint such a picture of our country at that time, but there you are.
To return to Axl and Beatrice. As I said, this elderly couple lived on the outer fringes of the warren, where their shelter was less protected from the elements and hardly benefited from the fire in the Great Chamber where everyone congregated at night. Perhaps there had been a time when they had lived closer to the fire; a time when they had lived with their children. In fact, it was just such an idea that would drift into Axl’s mind as he lay in his bed during the empty hours before dawn, his wife soundly asleep beside him, and then a sense of some unnamed loss would gnaw at his heart, preventing him from returning to sleep.
Perhaps that was why, on this particular morning, Axl had abandoned his bed altogether and slipped quietly outside to sit on the old warped bench beside the entrance to the warren in wait for the first signs of daylight. It was spring, but the air still felt bitter, even with Beatrice’s cloak, which he had taken on his way out and wrapped around himself. Yet he had become so absorbed in his thoughts that by the time he realised how cold he was, the stars had all but gone, a glow was spreading on the horizon, and the first notes of birdsong were emerging from the dimness.
He rose slowly to his feet, regretting having stayed out so long. He was in good health, but it had taken a while to shake off his last fever and he did not wish it to return. Now he could feel the damp in his legs, but as he turned to go back inside, he was well satisfied: for he had this morning succeeded in remembering a number of things that had eluded him for some time. Moreover, he now sensed he was about to come to some momentous decision—one that had been put off far too long—and felt an excitement within him which he was eager to share with his wife.
Inside, the passageways of the warren were still in complete darkness, and he was obliged to feel his way the short distance back to the door of his chamber. Many of the “doorways” within the warren were simple archways to mark the threshold to a chamber. The open nature of this arrangement would not have struck the villagers as compromising their privacy, but allowed rooms to benefit from any warmth coming down the corridors from the great fire or the smaller fires permitted within the warren. Axl and Beatrice’s room, however, being too far from any fire had something we might recognise as an actual door; a large wooden frame criss-crossed with small branches, vines and thistles which someone going in and out would each time have to lift to one side, but which shut out the chilly draughts. Axl would happily have done without this door, but it had over time become an object of considerable pride to Beatrice. He had often returned to find his wife pulling off withered pieces from the construct and replacing them with fresh cuttings she had gathered during the day.
This morning, Axl moved the barrier just enough to let himself in, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Here, the early dawn light was leaking into the room through the small chinks of their outer wall. He could see his hand dimly before him, and on the turf bed, Beatrice’s form still sound asleep under the thick blankets.
He was tempted to wake his wife. For a part of him felt sure that if, at this moment, she were awake and talking to him, whatever last barriers remained between him and his decision would finally crumble. But it was some time yet until the community roused itself and the day’s work began, so he settled himself on the low stool in the corner of the chamber, his wife’s cloak still tight around him.
He wondered how thick the mist would be that morning, and if, as the dark faded, he would see it had seeped through the cracks right into their chamber. But then his thoughts drifted away from such matters, back to what had been preoccupying him. Had they always lived like this, just the two of them, at the periphery of the community? Or had things once been quite different? Earlier, outside, some fragments of a remembrance had come back to him: a small moment when he was walking down the long central corridor of the warren, his arm around one of his own children, his gait a little crouched not on account of age as it might be now, but simply because he wished to avoid hitting his head on the beams in the murky light. Possibly the child had just been speaking to him, saying something amusing, and they were both of them laughing. But now, as earlier outside, nothing would quite settle in his mind, and the more he concentrated, the fainter the fragments seemed to grow. Perhaps these were just an elderly fool’s imaginings. Perhaps it was that God had never given them children.
You may wonder why Axl did not turn to his fellow villagers for assistance in recalling the past, but this was not as easy as you might suppose. For in this community the past was rarely discussed. I do not mean that it was taboo. I mean that it had somehow faded into a mist as dense as that which hung over the marshes. It simply did not occur to these villagers to think about the past—even the recent one.
To take an instance, one that had bothered Axl for some time: He was sure that not so long ago, there had been in their midst a woman with long red hair—a woman regarded as crucial to their village. Whenever anyone injured themselves or fell sick, it had been this red-haired woman, so skilled at healing, who was immediately sent for. Yet now this same woman was no longer to be found anywhere, and no one seemed to wonder what had occurred, or even to express regret at her absence. When one morning Axl had mentioned the matter to three neighbours while working with them to break up the frosted field, their response told him that they genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. One of them had even paused in his work in an effort to remember, but had ended by shaking his head. “Must have been a long time ago,” he had said.
Excerpted from THE BURIED GIANT by Kazuo Ishiguro. Copyright © 2015 by Kazuo Ishiguro. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Most helpful customer reviews
412 of 432 people found the following review helpful.
Amazing novel; but this may not be everyone's cuppa
By sb-lynn
Brief summary and review, no spoilers.
This novel takes place in England and the time period is right after the reign of the legendary King Arthur - which is all somewhat deliberately vague. The storyline centers around the travels of 5 main characters.
The first two characters we meet - and indeed in many ways the central two characters - are an elderly couple who leave their village in search of their son. Their memories are fading and they are not sure where their son is or even what he looks like anymore. Their reason for leaving their village are hazy as well; ostensibly something to do with their being denied a candle by other villagers.
The other characters are a young boy, a brave warrior and a valiant old knight.
So much of the storyline is dreamlike and vague and I believe your ultimate enjoyment and satisfaction of this novel is based on the premise that the less you know the better, so I will only say a bit more without causing any spoilers.
We know that the characters all unite at some point. We know that they are all on different missions. Their goals are seemingly unclear but will become clear at the end.
I loved this book. At the same time I have to say that it was not a quick read for me and there were points up until midway when I thought about giving up on it. Part of this was that I am not usually a fan of books that are somewhat "dreamlike" or surreal and I usually like my stories more straight-forward and grounded. There are lots of points in this book where you feel your own memory is fading; indeed what it might be like to have dementia. That Ishiguro pulls this off so effectively is impressive but daunting for the reader.
So for me, this book took a bit of work, but I was so glad by the time I finished that I had read it. The prose, as with any of the other book by this author, is just gorgeous. You really don't want to skip one word and you really shouldn't.
I do promise you that it all comes together beautifully by the end, and it was quite an emotional read for me. The storyline is so heartfelt and very mythic in feel and Ishiguro has some poignant and powerful things to say about love and vengeance, morals and ethics and about memory and reflection. Just amazing.
Highly recommended.
224 of 241 people found the following review helpful.
Grim fantasy and a meditation on memory and how the past returns
By Jessica Weissman
The versatile Kazuo Ishiguro has, for reasons known only to him, decided to write a fantasy set in the misty legendary British past. We are in a gloomy, frightening, uncertain, and dangerous world, some years after King Arthur died. Saxons and Britons are not actively at war, but loathe each other anyway. A mist pervades the countryside, muddling everyone's memories.
We follow an elderly couple (now known as Beatrice and Axl though Axl once had another name), who seem elaborately devoted to one another, and who are the central figures. After some mild ill-treatment in their cave-warren village they go on a journey to find their son, who for some reason is not living with them. Along the way they meet two heroic knights (Sir Gawain himself and Wistan the warrior) and some strange monks and some strange animals, including a most unusual dragon. Nothing is quite what it seems, and everything is sinister, with some magic in the background though just what is never clear.
Hints are dropped as to what is "really" going on, and as to a possibly different state of relations between Beatrice and Axl. The end of the book makes many things somewhat clearer, and packs a real emotional punch.
The language is oddly stilted though beautiful, and the dreamy misty quality of events and circumstances will either appeal to you or drive you nuts. I was driven nuts at first, but the strangeness of the story and the occasional dramatic and exciting passage rescued the book for me.
If you're waiting for Ishiguro to return to something like The Remains of the Day you'll just have to keep waiting. If you like historical fantasy with all the danger and dirt left in, of if the question of what memory means is important to you, you want to read this book.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Very clever: totally engaging once you click into the way it's writtten
By alan216
I have never read anything quite like this ever before..The Buried Giant is part fable, part road-story, part exploration of character: when the point of the journey and the backstory becomes clear, it was as if a light came on. I can think of some people who'd find this writing infuriating: the whole way in which it's handled makes it hard to work out whether what's being described is the world as it is or the world as it's being seen by the characters. Once I'd decided simply to allow the author's approach to work itself out, I loved it: but, as I say, it's a really strange book, a really strange way of writing. And: please note my star rating: once I'd finished it, I thought it brilliant!
( I went on to read some of the author's other works: they're quite different, both from this and really, from each other: but just as skilfully written! I now have a new author to follow)
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