The Remains of the Day
by Kazuo Ishiguro (#3)
I've been wanting to read this book for years, but when I finally committed myself to finding a copy, it was surprisingly difficult to track down. But worth the effort.
Imagine that P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves wrote a memoir at the end of his career, and imagine that in this memoir he came to the realization that he'd wasted his life as a handservant to noblesse oblige, and then imagine that reading this memoir totally fucking broke your heart. That pretty much sums up this novel. I've never read such an example of gut-wrenchingly sad yet controlled narrative. Jesus, I'm going to cry just thinking about it.
Read this book. But try to time the ending better than I did. I finished it all alone at 3 am this morning and had to wake up my dog to give me a hug.