While on vacation earlier this month I reread The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, which won the Booker Prize in 1989. Set in the 1950s, it’s a bittersweet novel narrated by a butler looking back over a career in which he spent his best years serving an aristocrat who turned out to be a Nazi sympathizer.
Here are some of his musings near the end of the novel:
“For a great many people, the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. Perhaps, then, there is something to his advice that I should cease looking back so much, that I should adopt a more positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished? The hard reality is, surely, that for the likes of you and I, there is little choice other than to leave our fate, ultimately, in the hands of those great gentlemen at the hub of this world who employ our services. What is the point in worrying oneself too much about what one could or could not have done to control the course one’s life took? Surely it is enough that the likes of you and I at least try to make our small contribution count for something true and worthy. And if some of us are prepared to sacrifice much in life in order to pursue such aspirations, surely that is in itself, whatever the outcome, cause for pride and contentment.”
