Kazuo Ishiguro is today receiving Nobel Prize in Literature from hands of King Charles Gustav of Sweden. In his acceptance speech this week he has tried, among or things, Marcel Proust and tribal nationalism, and has told a little of his personal history. He was born in Nagasaki in 1954 and moved to UK in 1960. It happened to him what happened to many young people of his generation, who wanted to be first of all rock star. He went with a backpack and a guitar, he also wore a portable typewriter. One day he left music, and went on to literature.
Proust and tribal nationalism. At Ishiguro, Swedish Academy gave him Nobel prize because in his work he has been able to reflect "how small worlds we inhabit are related to great political world". When trying to Proust, Kazuo Ishiguro refers to that literature that allows you all freedoms to scratch in most intimate places and explore most secret corners, those that both cost verbalize. By touching me of tribal nationalism, writer Arremanga to pronounce himself on great political world. Of that Magdalena of Proust, that shoots you in and allows you to rebuild how each one is doing throughout life, to hubbub of today's societies, which are fractured, broken, and where re are so many who wander disoriented and many ors to whom Simpl Emente has been abandoned. That's why, perhaps, that perverse tribalization, that eagerness to join and make pineapple.
The literature of Kazuo Ishiguro has a prodigious contention. He has explored most diverse genres and has served limitations imposed by conventions to build artifacts in which pieces are adjusted with astonishing precision. It gives impression that Ishiguro is peeking into abysses walking on tiptoe. It goes down to hells of this world, but it does it with elegance of one who is going to picnic to gardens of an English mansion.
In Never forsaking me, a story in which Ishiguro illuminates serious contradictions to which we are directed by hand of most recent scientific advances, re is a heartbreaking moment. The narrator tells it so: "What's so special about that song?" Well, truth is, I didn't listen carefully to whole letter; I was waiting for chorus to sound: ' Oh, baby, baby ... Never forsake me ... ' and I imagined a woman who had been told that she could not have children, and that I had wished m with all my life. Then it produces a kind of miracle and has a baby, and tightens it firmly against his chest and goes from one side to anor singing: ' Oh, baby, baby ... "Never Forsake Me ..."
A young woman hugs a pillow and bailotea clinging to her while humming a song. That's way things are, so count Ishiguro. Congratulations on that award.
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