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The Buried Giant (English Edition) Kindle版

5つ星のうち3.7 1,368個の評価

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Chapter One

You would have searched a long time for the sort of winding lane or tranquil meadow for which England later became celebrated. There were instead miles of desolate, uncultivated land; here and there rough-hewn paths over craggy hills or bleak moorland. Most of the roads left by the Romans would by then have become broken or overgrown, often fading into wilderness. Icy fogs hung over rivers and marshes, serving all too well the ogres that were then still native to this land. The people who lived nearby—one wonders what desperation led them to settle in such gloomy spots—might well have feared these creatures, whose panting breaths could be heard long before their deformed figures emerged from the mist. But such monsters were not cause for astonishment. People then would have regarded them as everyday hazards, and in those days there was so much else to worry about. How to get food out of the hard ground; how not to run out of firewood; how to stop the sickness that could kill a dozen pigs in a single day and produce green rashes on the cheeks of children.

In any case, ogres were not so bad provided one did not provoke them. One had to accept that every so often, perhaps following some obscure dispute in their ranks, a creature would come blundering into a village in a terrible rage, and despite shouts and brandishings of weapons, rampage about injuring anyone slow to move out of its path. Or that every so often, an ogre might carry off a child into the mist. The people of the day had to be philosophical about such outrages.

In one such area on the edge of a vast bog, in the shadow of some jagged hills, lived an elderly couple, Axl and Beatrice. Perhaps these were not their exact or full names, but for ease, this is how we will refer to them. I would say this couple lived an isolated life, but in those days few were “isolated” in any sense we would understand. For warmth and protection, the villagers lived in shelters, many of them dug deep into the hillside, connecting one to the other by underground passages and covered corridors. Our elderly couple lived within one such sprawling warren—“building” would be too grand a word—with roughly sixty other villagers. If you came out of their warren and walked for twenty minutes around the hill, you would have reached the next settlement, and to your eyes, this one would have seemed identical to the first. But to the inhabitants themselves, there would have been many distinguishing details of which they would have been proud or ashamed.

I have no wish to give the impression that this was all there was to the Britain of those days; that at a time when magnificent civilisations flourished elsewhere in the world, we were here not much beyond the Iron Age. Had you been able to roam the countryside at will, you might well have discovered castles containing music, fine food, athletic excellence; or monasteries with inhabitants steeped in learning. But there is no getting around it. Even on a strong horse, in good weather, you could have ridden for days without spotting any castle or monastery looming out of the greenery. Mostly you would have found communities like the one I have just described, and unless you had with you gifts of food or clothing, or were ferociously armed, you would not have been sure of a welcome. I am sorry to paint such a picture of our country at that time, but there you are.

To return to Axl and Beatrice. As I said, this elderly couple lived on the outer fringes of the warren, where their shelter was less protected from the elements and hardly benefited from the fire in the Great Chamber where everyone congregated at night. Perhaps there had been a time when they had lived closer to the fire; a time when they had lived with their children. In fact, it was just such an idea that would drift into Axl’s mind as he lay in his bed during the empty hours before dawn, his wife soundly asleep beside him, and then a sense of some unnamed loss would gnaw at his heart, preventing him from returning to sleep.

Perhaps that was why, on this particular morning, Axl had abandoned his bed altogether and slipped quietly outside to sit on the old warped bench beside the entrance to the warren in wait for the first signs of daylight. It was spring, but the air still felt bitter, even with Beatrice’s cloak, which he had taken on his way out and wrapped around himself. Yet he had become so absorbed in his thoughts that by the time he realised how cold he was, the stars had all but gone, a glow was spreading on the horizon, and the first notes of birdsong were emerging from the dimness.

He rose slowly to his feet, regretting having stayed out so long. He was in good health, but it had taken a while to shake off his last fever and he did not wish it to return. Now he could feel the damp in his legs, but as he turned to go back inside, he was well satisfied: for he had this morning succeeded in remembering a number of things that had eluded him for some time. Moreover, he now sensed he was about to come to some momentous decision—one that had been put off far too long—and felt an excitement within him which he was eager to share with his wife.

Inside, the passageways of the warren were still in complete darkness, and he was obliged to feel his way the short distance back to the door of his chamber. Many of the “doorways” within the warren were simple archways to mark the threshold to a chamber. The open nature of this arrangement would not have struck the villagers as compromising their privacy, but allowed rooms to benefit from any warmth coming down the corridors from the great fire or the smaller fires permitted within the warren. Axl and Beatrice’s room, however, being too far from any fire had something we might recognise as an actual door; a large wooden frame criss-crossed with small branches, vines and thistles which someone going in and out would each time have to lift to one side, but which shut out the chilly draughts. Axl would happily have done without this door, but it had over time become an object of considerable pride to Beatrice. He had often returned to find his wife pulling off withered pieces from the construct and replacing them with fresh cuttings she had gathered during the day.

This morning, Axl moved the barrier just enough to let himself in, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Here, the early dawn light was leaking into the room through the small chinks of their outer wall. He could see his hand dimly before him, and on the turf bed, Beatrice’s form still sound asleep under the thick blankets.

He was tempted to wake his wife. For a part of him felt sure that if, at this moment, she were awake and talking to him, whatever last barriers remained between him and his decision would finally crumble. But it was some time yet until the community roused itself and the day’s work began, so he settled himself on the low stool in the corner of the chamber, his wife’s cloak still tight around him.

He wondered how thick the mist would be that morning, and if, as the dark faded, he would see it had seeped through the cracks right into their chamber. But then his thoughts drifted away from such matters, back to what had been preoccupying him. Had they always lived like this, just the two of them, at the periphery of the community? Or had things once been quite different? Earlier, outside, some fragments of a remembrance had come back to him: a small moment when he was walking down the long central corridor of the warren, his arm around one of his own children, his gait a little crouched not on account of age as it might be now, but simply because he wished to avoid hitting his head on the beams in the murky light. Possibly the child had just been speaking to him, saying something amusing, and they were both of them laughing. But now, as earlier outside, nothing would quite settle in his mind, and the more he concentrated, the fainter the fragments seemed to grow. Perhaps these were just an elderly fool’s imaginings. Perhaps it was that God had never given them children.

You may wonder why Axl did not turn to his fellow villa­gers for assistance in recalling the past, but this was not as easy as you might suppose. For in this community the past was rarely discussed. I do not mean that it was taboo. I mean that it had somehow faded into a mist as dense as that which hung over the marshes. It simply did not occur to these villagers to think about the past—even the recent one.

To take an instance, one that had bothered Axl for some time: He was sure that not so long ago, there had been in their midst a woman with long red hair—a woman regarded as crucial to their village. Whenever anyone injured themselves or fell sick, it had been this red-haired woman, so skilled at healing, who was immediately sent for. Yet now this same woman was no longer to be found anywhere, and no one seemed to wonder what had occurred, or even to express regret at her absence. When one morning Axl had mentioned the matter to three neighbours while working with them to break up the frosted field, their response told him that they genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. One of them had even paused in his work in an effort to remember, but had ended by shaking his head. “Must have been a long time ago,” he had said.

Excerpted from THE BURIED GIANT by Kazuo Ishiguro. Copyright © 2015 by Kazuo Ishiguro. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. 

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レビュー

Longlisted for the 2017 International Dublin Literary Award
Longlisted for the 2017 Yasnaya Polyana Literary Award
Finalist for the
 2016 World Fantasy Award—Novels
Shortlisted for the 2016 British Book Industry Award for Fiction
Longlisted for the 2015 Kirkus Prize

“It’s highly satisfying to read re-imaginings of myths you’ve encountered from childhood through university. I was completely charmed and lost in the mixed genre world of The Buried Giant.” —Emily Bossé, author of Last Animal Standing on Gentleman’s Farm

“[Ishiguro is] perhaps not as prolific as his peers, but always on top of his game. . . . [The Buried Giant] gives us one of his most stirring stories yet. . . . The story takes place about a thousand years ago, but the reflections on ‘lost memories, love, revenge and war’ are all too touchingly familiar.” —Carli Whitwell, HELLO! Canada

“It’s striking to find a novel that makes us feel ambivalent about the removal of a dictator, and about the very process of uncovering information about its characters—something all novels do. And where The Buried Giant truly moves Ishiguro into new territory isn’t so much in its fantasy elements—which are downplayed—but in a wider sweep . . . [to] explore the role of shared memories.” —Mike Doherty, Maclean’s

The Buried Giant is remarkably different from anything he’s written before, a ‘western-cum-samurai-cum-fantasy novel,’ as he puts it, that is at once an exploration of memory and the way it deceives, a comment on religion and the way it divides, and a study of how personal and societal resentment is passed down from one generation to the next—a topic with modern-day resonance.” —Mark Medley, The Globe and Mail

“The highly inventive novelist has returned with a wondrous tale set in the sixth century. . . . [T]his new novel transcends its genre to ask larger questions that deal with the frailty of humankind, and the strength of emotional bonds that tie us. . . . [T]hrough his strong cast of characters, he offers deep insight.” —Safa Jinje, National Post

“This is a sad, complex, haunting novel. . . . [F]rightening and disturbing at many levels. . . . Perhaps the most sinister aspect of the novel is the way it reflects ourselves back at us. . . . I’ve never quite encountered such a well-written fictional account of cognitive bias. . . . This alone makes this a precious book indeed. The spike in anti-migrant and anti-Muslim hate crime in a post-Brexit Britain, not to mention the rise of Donald Trump in the US or the far right in Europe, has been a salutary reminder of the need to always avoid ‘othering’ human beings; this book is full of such compassion for humanity it must surely be a worthy antidote.” —The Guardian 

“Set just after the time of King Arthur’s reign, The Buried Giant explores myth and legend in an innovative way. Ishiguro succeeds in making readers feel like they are part of this magical era. There are surprises galore in this book and a very sobering ending.” —Newsday

The Buried Giant . . . resonates long after the final pages. . . . This elegantly fantastical tale featuring knights, ogres and fairy-tale castles, is a profound exploration of memory, guilt and trauma.” —The National 

“I would venture to say that it’s one of [Ishiguro's] most complex and heartbreaking portraits of how memory and trauma are intertwined with forgetfulness. . . . Get the tissues for this one.” —Bustle

“It’s a book that people will read in the decades and centuries to come and will, eventually, be recognised for the masterpiece it is.” —Alex Preston, The Observer

“I was mesmerized. I have been in some measure spellbound by everything Ishiguro has written, but this new book was like a doorway into a magical world, half strange and half familiar. . . . The magical and the real coexist disconcertingly. The achievement is remarkable.” —Niall Ferguson, The Guardian

“Months later I’m still thinking about The Buried Giant: its unsettling set pieces, its looping narrative, its eerie and beautiful images, how remarkably and totally it enchants and discomfits.” —Hanya Yanagihara, The Guardian

“No novelist around today beats Ishiguro when it comes to writing about loss; and, almost every time he tackles his signature subject, he does so in a different genre: His breakthrough book, The Remains of the Day, is a ‘straight’ literary novel in diary form; When We Were Orphans is a detective tale and Never Let Me Go is a sci-fi story. Here, Ishiguro serves up a masterful blend of fantasy, and Arthurian romance and postmodern absurdity. In The Buried Giant, an exhausted group of medieval travelers cross a blasted landscape straight out of the plays and novels of Samuel Beckett. They ‘can’t go on,” but they “go on” and so, too, do Ishiguro’s readers, through scenes infused with menace and magical beauty.” —NPR 

“One book published early this year continues to haunt me: Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant. A sidelong and compelling engagement with Arthur­ian legend, it hooks itself to myth and yet is completely original, its clean language full of depth, full of hope and sorrow.” —Erica Wagner, author of Ariel’s Gift and Seizure 

“An astonishing masterpiece.” —Le Monde (France)

“[A] modern masterpiece that I am certain people will be reading for decades to come.” —Jamie Byng, The Independent

“Ishiguro, adept with his pen, takes up the sword of fantasy. . . . What is most impressive about The Buried Giant is Ishiguro’s ability to use the setting of a familiar genre to create an original world that feels authentic and with relevancy to the contemporary world. . . . [L]ike Ishiguro’s other novels, [The Buried Giant] is a memorable tale that speaks to the complexity within each of us.” —Yung-Hsiang Kao, The Japan News

“Kazuo Ishiguro has once again blown critics away with his beautiful, imaginative writing in his new novel, The Buried Giant. We loved it so much we chose it as our March First Editions Club pick!” —Parnassus Book Store, Tennessee

“It’s a sad, elegiac story . . . A dreamy journey . . . Easy to read but difficult to forget.” —Lydia Millet, Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Ishiguro works this fantastical material with the tools of a master realist. . . . [He] makes us feel its sheer grotesque monstrosity with a force and freshness that have been leached away by legions of computer-generated orcs. . . . He keeps a straight face, but Ishiguro has fun with the swords and sorcery: he’s a lifelong fan of samurai manga and westerns, and some of the action has the feel of a classic showdown scored by Ennio Morricone.” —Lev Grossman, TIME

“If forced at knife-point to choose my favourite Ishiguro novel, I’d opt for The Buried Giant.” —David Mitchell

Kazuo Ishiguro is a remarkable novelist, both for the quality of his work—because his novels share a careful, precise approach to language and to character—and because he does not ever write the same novel, or even the same type of novel, twice. . . . Fantasy and historical fiction and myth here run together with the Matter of Britain, in a novel that’s easy to admire, to respect and to enjoy. . . . The Buried Giant does what important books do: It remains in the mind long after it has been read, refusing to leave, forcing one to turn it over and over. On a second reading, and on a third, its characters and events and motives are easier to understand, but even so, it guards its secrets and its world close. Ishiguro is not afraid to tackle huge, personal themes, nor to use myths, history and the fantastic as the tools to do it. The Buried Giant is an exceptional novel.” —Neil Gaiman, The New York Times Book Review

A lyrical, allusive (and elusive) voyage into the mists of British folklore by renowned novelist Ishiguro. . . . Lovely: a fairly tale for grown-ups, both partaking in and departing from a rich literary tradition.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) --このテキストは、絶版本またはこのタイトルには設定されていない版型に関連付けられています。

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