Kazuo Ishiguro is a master storyteller, in a class of his own making.

In this, his sixth and strangest

novel, his narrative brilliance depends, as always, on over-simplicity, a highly provocative idiom
which embraces both the prosaic and the prissy. Innumerable sleights of hand, sly flash-forwards,
almost psychotic bits of underwriting and a multitude of red herrings combine to make the reader
ache with curiosity about what happened earlier and what happens next.

Ostensibly - but this is surely just another massive Ishiguro tease - Never Let Me Go is about a
group of genetically-engineered or test-tube children living in a comfortable country house called
Hailsham. Here there is a sports pavilion and a playing field, and the students do ordinary things
like playing rounders. One little girl even has a gorgeous, luscious pencil case with a furry pom-
pom attached to its zip...

Quite so, but from the uneasy opening lines onwards, we know there is something special about
these children. They have no parents, no surnames, they never go on holiday, they will never have
babies of their own. They are, in fact, being exclusively bred to become "donors".

The exact meaning of this sinister word is not made clear until page 73, when one of their more
outspoken guardians suddenly blurts it all out. "None of you will go to America," she tells her
charges. "None of you will be film stars... Your lives are set out for you. You'll become adults,
then... you'll start to donate your vital organs. That's what each of you was created to do."

This thoroughly macabre tale is told by a pupil called Kathy in a schoolgirlish or nurse-like
vernacular, at times brooding, mawkish, wearisome or poignantly cheery. She focuses particularly
on her relationship with two fellow students, Tommy and Ruth. The bonds of loyalty between
them, the allegiance and camaraderie - old Ishiguro themes - provide the book with its title. The
hold they exercise on each other, and on the reader, becomes tighter as the story proceeds.

The dreadfulness of the subject matter - even Kathy admits at one point, "It's horror movie stuff" -
is rubbed in by the perkily banal language. The rain comes "bucketing down", people "don't have
the faintest", and sections begin with preambles like, "This might all sound daft but...". From time
to time, the reader is dragged in, if not fatally compromised, by asides like, "I don't know how it
was where you were...".

After a while, the story moves away from Hailsham - the name has its own eerie resonance and
double meanings - but into an only marginally wider world. Kathy is now a carer, still closely
involved with Tommy and Ruth, and hurrying between various "recovery centres" where she helps
uncomplaining donors through their suicidally heroic ordeals. Donors, incidentally, do not "die".
They "complete".

The narrator's time on the roads echoes the love-sick butler's odyssey in The Remains of the Day.
She often sleeps in an "overnight" and sits alone in motorway cafeterias. Ishiguro's England is a
simplified and desolate place, featureless apart from the odd bus shelter - wasn't there a
significant bus shelter in the butler's story? - and such comically downbeat things as the shadowy
reflections you see in hospital floors or "double glazed windows which seal at the touch of a
handle".

The relish with which such matters are described is central to Ishiguro's art, but their incorporation
into the text is done with such enigmatic grace and lightness of touch, such naturalness, that the
reader may be forgiven for sometimes wondering if they are reflections of the author's own
character and taste. Ishiguro undoubtedly has an artist's double vision. Perhaps he is also
genuinely interested in double-glazing? If this is so, does it make his naively innocent pose
somewhat artificial? It is also tempting to ask if Ishiguro's use of red herrings is a form of genius or
evidence of a wandering mind.

In this novel, he frequently builds up the tension with appetite-whetting references to offstage
noises, unexplained things on people's sleeves or - as in his first novel, A Pale View of Hills - caught
around people's feet. Such diversions seem to have no direct bearing on the plot but their
accumulated effect is so invigorating that it hardly matters if these are meticulously calculated
master strokes or, just occasionally, actual slips of the pen.

Halfway through, Kathy and her two chums even pay a typically irrelevant but highly disturbing
token visit to some symbolic marshland, a chilling reminder of the wistful landscape featured in A
Pale View of Hills. This is the only occasion in Never Let Me Go when the author reverts to the
Japanese-ness that characterised his early work and the dreaminess in which some critics feel he
over-indulged in his mightily ambitious novel, The Unconsoled.

The narrative is rendered even more exciting by the fact that none of these poor doomed "clones"
fights their fate. Have they been brain-washed not to care?

A brief flutter of interest is created by a chance encounter with a woman from whom Kathy's
friend Ruth might possibly have been cloned, but their origins are of only passing interest to them.
"Look down the toilet," declares Tommy after this last episode. "That's where you'll find we all
come from."

In an utterly riveting final scene, which takes place in Littlehampton of all places (more Ishiguro
playfulness?), our heroes have a meeting with the two high-minded women who set up Hailsham.
Here the author introduces a beautiful red herring in the shape of a mysterious bedside cabinet
which is being heaved down some stairs and taken off in a white van.

This is all very suggestive, all very medical, but Never Let Me Go has as little to do with genetic
engineering and the cloning controversy as The Remains of the Day has to do with butlering or
When We Were Orphans to do with detective work.

Ishiguro is primarily a poet. Accuracy of social observation, dialogue and even characterisation is
not his aim. In this deceptively sad novel, he simply uses a science-fiction framework to throw light
on ordinary human life, the human soul, human sexuality, love, creativity and childhood
innocence.

He does so with devastating effect, gently hinting that we are all, to some extent, clones, all
copycats and mimics who acquire our mannerisms from the TV and cinema screens, even
advertisements, as much as from our elders and betters. And, more frighteningly, that we are all,
to some extent, pawns in someone else's game, our lives set out for us.

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The children of Hailsham House are afraid of the woods. In the days when their guardians were
much stricter, the school myth goes, a boy's body was found there with its hands and feet
removed. Sometimes that dark, threatening fringe of trees can cast such a shadow over the whole
school that a pupil who has offended the others might be hauled out of bed in the middle of the
night, forced to a window, and made to stare out at it.

When not applying peer pressure in this curious way, Hailsham children seem to have a nice life.
The school places considerable emphasis on self-expression through art and, especially, on staying
healthy. There are frequent, exhaustive medical check-ups. Smoking is a real crime, because of the
way it can damage your body. Yet despite the care lavished on them, their world has a puzzlingly
second-hand feel. Everything they own is junk. Teaching aids are rudimentary. Sometimes you get
the feeling they're being taken care of on the cheap.

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In fact, they are; and their fear of the woods reflects, in a distorted but fundamentally accurate
way, their fate. They're organ donors, cloned to be broken up piecemeal for spares. The purpose
of Hailsham is to prepare them for their future - to help instal the powerful mechanisms of self-
repression and denial that will keep them steady and dependable from one donation to the next.

Never Let Me Go is the story of Kathy and Tommy and Ruth, and of the love-triangle they begin at
Hailsham. Ruth is the controlling one, Tommy is the one who used to find it hard to keep his
temper: they hope that love will save them. They've heard that love - or art, or both - will get you
a deferral. Kathy - well, Kathy is a carer by nature as well as profession: she watches her friends
break themselves against the inevitable, but never lets them go. After Hailsham, they grow from
puzzled children to confused young adults. They live in a prolonged limbo, waiting for the call to
donate. They're free to wander. They write essays, continue with their artwork, learn to drive,
roam Britain looking for their "possibles" - the real human beings they might have been cloned
from.

Their lack of understanding of the world is funny and touching. They stare into the window of an
ordinary office, fascinated by the clean modern space. "It's their lunch break," Tommy says
reverently of the office workers, "but they don't go out. Don't blame them either." The clones look
in at the society that made them, failing to understand its simplest social and economic structures.

As readers we're in a similar position. What Kathy doesn't know, we have to guess at. This
sometimes excruciating curiosity propels us along; meanwhile, Ishiguro's careful, understated
narration focuses on the way young people make a life out of whatever is on offer. Nothing is
more heartbreaking than received wisdom, and Hailsham students, carefully sheltered not just
from any real understanding of their fate but from any real understanding of the world in which it
will be acted out, have nothing else to go on.

Their sense of suspension, in a present where they neither make nor understand the rules, is
pervasive. Childishly snobbish about the proprieties, they're as puzzled by what's proper as anyone
else. Small fashions of behaviour come and go. Far into adulthood Kathy, Tommy and Ruth
dissimulate and bicker and set teenage behavioural traps for one another.

Inevitably, it being set in an alternate Britain, in an alternate 1990s, this novel will be described as
science fiction. But there's no science here. How are the clones kept alive once they've begun
"donating"? Who can afford this kind of medicine, in a society the author depicts as no richer,
indeed perhaps less rich, than ours?

Ishiguro's refusal to consider questions such as these forces his story into a pure rhetorical space.
You read by pawing constantly at the text, turning it over in your hands, looking for some vital
seam or row of rivets. Precisely how naturalistic is it supposed to be? Precisely how parabolic?
Receiving no answer, you're thrown back on the obvious explanation: the novel is about its own
moral position on cloning. But that position has been visited before (one thinks immediately of
Michael Marshall Smith's savage 1996 offering, Spares). There's nothing new here; there's nothing
all that startling; and there certainly isn't anything to argue with. Who on earth could be "for" the
exploitation of human beings in this way?

Ishiguro's contribution to the cloning debate turns out to be sleight of hand, eye candy, cover for
his pathological need to be subtle. So what is Never Let Me Go really about? It's about the steady
erosion of hope. It's about repressing what you know, which is that in this life people fail one
another, grow old and fall to pieces. It's about knowing that while you must keep calm, keeping
calm won't change a thing. Beneath Kathy's flattened and lukewarm emotional landscape lies the
pure volcanic turmoil, the unexpressed yet perfectly articulated, perfectly molten rage of the
orphan.

By the final, grotesque revelation of what really lies ahead for Kathy and Tommy and Ruth, readers
may find themselves full of an energy they don't understand and aren't quite sure how to deploy.
Never Let Me Go makes you want to have sex, take drugs, run a marathon, dance - anything to
convince yourself that you're more alive, more determined, more conscious, more dangerous than
any of these characters.

This extraordinary and, in the end, rather frighteningly clever novel isn't about cloning, or being a
clone, at all. It's about why we don't explode, why we don't just wake up one day and go sobbing
and crying down the street, kicking everything to pieces out of the raw, infuriating, completely
personal sense of our lives never having been what they could have been.

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I'm always excited when I run across a novel that is, so far as I can tell, essentially perfect. Never
Let Me Go is one of those. There is not a single thing wrong with this book. Ishiguro is a master
craftsman and it shows here.

The novel's characterizations are pitch perfect. Its narrative flow reveals things in exactly the right
order. Mystery is preserved until it no longer matters and then, under the light of revelation, we
discover the mystery was never the thing that mattered. Ishiguro plays with the reader as he
unfolds his exploration of what it means to livebut never does so unfairly or at the expense of
his characters' right to dignity and reality (a right that he very much does grant his characters).

Never Let Me Go is narrated from nearly a decade before its publication. As Kathy quietly
reminisces from her vantage in the late 1990s, she gradually comes to explore a life fraught with
meaning and purposeand fraught simultaneously with that kind of superlative meaninglessness
that Ecclesiastes bemoans in all of its somber weariness. Kathy is a caregiver to recuperating
donors and relates her special pleasure in the few instances in which she had been able to offer
care to those who had been students at the exclusive (and, as it turns out, much envied) Hailsham,
where she herself grew up. Memories of Hailsham water a fertile delta of memories through
which we gradually come to understand both Kathy and the world she has inheriteda world
filled both with much light and much darkness.

In other words, a world much like mine or yours. Still, Kathy's story is unique and it is in her own
tale's peculiarities that our own is better revealed. Better explored.

Some may be tempted to see Never Let Me Go as ethical question and admonishment to this
generation of readers and to the one that follows us. Certainly, that is there, but only as mise-en-
scne to the larger panorama of a woman's quest to discern her past, present, and future from a
glut of memories (some of which are only mostly trustworthy or even trusted) and how that
journey sheds light on questions more important than mere ethical concerns. In Never Let Me Go,
Ishiguro continues to play as he has in past works with memory and perception and how memory
is so often the primary defense against perspicacity, yet as his narrator is acutely aware of her own
remolding of history through nostalgia and forgetfulness, we are assured that perspicuity is not his
target here.

No. I believe Never Let Me Go is much more a perfectly plotted meditation (and its style is itself
quite meditative) on the human condition, the place of our own hands in shaping our destinies,
and what it means to live. These could all be clichd topics but Ishiguro approaches with such a
vaguely detached sublimity that he breathes (through Kathy his narrator) a certain verdant spirit
into these things. They are never treated as anything more than mundane, but it is precisely by
that treatment that he gives his purpose such power and impact