I just finished reading Klara and the Sun (first published in 2021), the novel by Kazuo Ishiguro. It is a story told with surgical precision and well-crafted dialogue through restrained, almost minimalist language. The setting is, apparently intentionally, ambiguous: it is not very clear where the story takes place, or exactly when, and this geographical and temporal vagueness gives the novel a fable-like quality. It could be the United States, England, or any developed Western society in the not-too-distant future. The characters are constructed with extraordinary psychological complexity, especially Klara, whose artificial perspective allows us to see humanity from an external and, paradoxically, more penetrating point of view. It is almost like seeing ourselves from the outside.
If the plot could be simplified, it could be said that it is the story of a sick girl and her relationship with her AA (Artificial Friend). But this summary does not do justice to a story that explores timeless human themes: love, sacrifice, faith, hope. At a time when artificial intelligence seems to be catching up with and perhaps surpassing what we call natural intelligence (the capacity for genuine reflection seems to be becoming increasingly rare), the novel takes on an interesting relevance.
Ishiguro uses this theme as a lens to examine fundamental questions about the human condition. In other words, technology is an excuse to touch on other issues. What defines us as humans? Is it our capacity to love, to sacrifice ourselves, to create meaning in suffering? To put our faith in anything?
It is an enjoyable read that produces a certain melancholy at times. But I am not writing this reflection just to recommend the book. There is something else, something that happens to me frequently with many non-Cuban writers, and which Klara and the Sun exemplifies brilliantly.
Ishiguro, born in Nagasaki but raised in England since the age of five, manages to create a deeply moving and universal work without anchoring himself to a specific national identity, without declaring his geographical or cultural origins, without making explicit references to his historical context. This novel speaks directly to the universal human experience, without nationalist crutches.
This contrasts sharply with a certain Cuban literary canon that seems to always demand a declaration of origin and constant reference to the national historical and political context. Cuba first, Cuba second, Cuba always. History with a capital H. As if literature always had to carry a visible passport or wear a stamp on its forehead.
Nothing in Klara and the Sun reveals that its author is a Japanese man raised in England. There is not the slightest reference to the atomic bombs that destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to Japanese or British cultural identity, or to the tensions between homeland and adopted country. There are no specific cultural markers, no geographical nostalgia, no elaboration on uprootedness or national belonging.
See how it can be done?
