Daily Blague

Certainly, the concept of creating beings for the sole purpose of harvesting their vital organs is a horrifying thought (and something I hope I never live to see). But that's not what I've been pondering since finishing Never Let Me Go; rather, what has been occupying my mind is Ishiguro's vivid depiction of less tangible loss. The Hailsham students lead a sheltered, almost idyllic childhood, during which they are nurtured by caring 'guardians' and encouraged to learn and be creative and, to some extent, allowed (by all but Miss Lucy) to dream about the future. Then, after a transition period during which virtually nothing seems to be required of them, the opportunity to pursue any childhood or adolescent dreams is taken away: they must become first 'carers' and then 'donors' until they 'complete.' As carers, they have no time for anything other than traveling from center to center to look in on their donors; as donors, it's too late to do anything but await the inevitable end.

In the case of the clones, dreams and opportunities and time are not so much lost by them as lost to them because of what they are. But I can't help but wonder: in the case of 'normal' people, how much is lost because of what one is expected to become? How much time have I wasted, how many friends have I discarded and how many other opportunities have I passed on as a result of choices I made at a fairly early age about what I should do with my life? As Kathy H. comments, late in the novel:

And it started to dawn on me, I suppose, that a lot of things I'd always assumed I'd plenty of time to get around to doing, I might now have to act on pretty soon or let them go forever.

Despite the fact that my life has been, generally speaking, a happy one, it is this notion, above all, that I find terrifying. But perhaps my reaction is a function of my age, and the increasing realization of my own mortality; I would be curious to learn how younger readers react.

Your realization, JKM, goes to the heart of this novel's realism. Every adult reader will want to cry out, along with Michiko Kakutani and Miss Lucy, "Wake Up: You're Doomed!" to these kids. And yet they can't understand, because they're young (not because they're stupid or warped), and Ishiguro invites the more reflective among us to remember that we wouldn't have understood, either.

I expect that younger readers will bristle with confidence that this could never happen to them.

For me, the “moral” of the story fastens on one thing that really does distinguish the clones from us; forbidden to grow old, they can never pass on the flavor of their generation to the ones that follow; sequestered in childhood, they themselves know nothing of the generation preceding. It is this grasp of lives spent beyond the limits of our own that ventilates the idea of mortality. We matter because we’re connected not only to our contemporary cohort but to parents, children, uncles, nephews, and most important of all, perhaps, to unrelated older or younger people.

Having finally gotten and read this quietly astonishing book, I had a much different experience of the lives of these children and young adults. They strike me as the quintessentially living-in-the-moment, free from the angst of looking forward and planning today's movements in anticipation of future rewards or punishments. They know their fate as soon as they have awareness, and accept it as such. In that way, I'm reminded of modern adoptions. Were they not created for "donations," they would never have lived. As such, however, they are sentient, creative (if not procreative), observant, reflective, and fully alive. I'm reminded of my nearby organic animal farm where cows, sheep, pigs, and chickens are encouraged, while they're alive, to fulfill their maximum animal creativeness (www.pasturepride.com). They eat well, live freely in open pastures, and receive premium care from their guardians. Why bother? They ask the same question in the novel. Because, as Miss Emily and Madame explain, it's the right thing to do. The implications of how the other clones were, and continue to be, reared (animals are raised, peopled are reared) evoke images of the hideous conditions of the corporate farm. While I'm a supporter of the clean food movement, you can be sure I would not be a supporter of the donor program. Was anyone reminded of The Handmaid's Tale? Still, I was surprised by the lack of regret and sadness from these characters. Is it the Stockholm effect? Why didn't they try to escape, any of them, as I believe they tried to do in Handmaid? In any case, it was an eerie and thought provoking novel, written carefully, delicately, and containing little poofs of shockers throughout.