The Unconsoled, Kazuo Ishiguro: Part stream of (un)consciousness, part satire on the cult of art (and its futile controversies) with great dollops of regret for opportunities missed and relationships gone awry. Someone warned me never, ever to read this book but I loved its sheer weirdness and the quality of the writing.A dream (?) lasting over five hundred pages sounds quite daunting, but for me the narrative never flags. The sheer incongruity of the events and apparent absence of logic has a ‘rightness’ about it that I found impressive.
