by Derek Neal
Kazuo Ishiguro often talks about a scene from Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre that has influenced his writing. In an interview on the occasion of his Nobel Prize in 2017, he mentions how “the narrator hides from the reader and hides from herself in the Charlotte Brontë books,” and how he also writes first person characters in this way. Elsewhere, Ishiguro mentions a specific scene from Jane Eyre where she is crying but doesn’t tell this to the reader; instead, another character in the novel reveals this information. Here’s the passage form Jane Eyre, where Mr. Rochester, whom Jane is in love with, is speaking to her after she believes she has seen evidence that he is in love with another woman. Rochester asks her:
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”
“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”
“Not the least.”
“Return to the drawing-room; you are deserting too early.”
“I am tired, sir.”
He looked at me for a minute.
“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”
“Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”
“But I affirm that you are; so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes—indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag.”
Rochester continues for a few more lines until the chapter ends, with Jane not saying anything else or commenting on the conversation. She is hiding from the reader and, as Ishiguro says, from herself, but the encounter with Rochester reveals her true feelings for him. In being forced to confront the world outside one’s head—the objective world, rather than her subjective one—the truth she would seek to repress comes to the surface.
Ishiguro most famously used this technique in The Remains of the Day with the butler Stevens, another character who spends the novel hiding from the reader and from himself. In one scene, Stevens’ father (also a butler) suffers a stroke during an important political conference at Darlington Hall, where they both are employed. It becomes clear that the father will die, but rather than spend his father’s last moments by his side, Stevens decides to continue attending to the aristocrats and politicians at the conference, even cutting short a conversation with his father in which the dying man attempts to have an honest conversation and bypass the formality and distance that have characterized their relationship. Stevens knows his father is dying but, it seems, cannot admit this to himself because it conflicts with the entire purpose of his life—performing the duties of a butler to the highest standard. His pain is revealed when Lord Darlington, his employer, comments on his appearance:
“Stevens, are you all right?”
“Yes, sir. Perfectly.”
“You look as though you’re crying.”
I laughed and taking out a handkerchief, quickly wiped my face. “I’m very sorry, sir. The strains of a hard day.”
“Yes, it’s been hard work.”
The scene continues and Miss Keaton, who will become the lost love of Stevens’ life, informs him that his “father passed away about four minutes ago.” Now, we think, Stevens will let the mask fall, but he doesn’t—the rules of conduct governing him as a butler won’t allow it. He continues working while Miss Keaton goes to close his father’s eyes.
At the end of the novel, Stevens starts to question the choices he’s made in his life. Was he correct to devote his life to Lord Darlington? Should he have expressed his feelings for Miss Keaton? His work has begun to suffer as well, which affects him greatly. Talking to a stranger—perhaps the only person to whom he can unburden himself—he says:
“More and more errors are appearing in my work. Quite trivial in themselves—at least so far. But they’re of the sort I would never have made before, and I know what they signify. Goodness knows, I’ve tried and tried, but it’s no use. I’ve given what I had to give. I gave it all to Lord Darlington.”
The stranger replies:
“Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie? I’ve got one somewhere. Here we are. It’s fairly clean. Just blew my nose once this morning, that’s all. Have a go, mate.”
Once again, we learn that Stevens is crying, but from another character. The only time Stevens expresses his true feelings to the reader is a few pages before this moment, when he’s talking to Miss Keaton at a bus stop after he’s gone to visit her. They are both much older, and Miss Keaton is now Mrs. Benn, having moved out of Darlington Hall and married some years earlier. During their conversation, Miss Keaton mentions that she would have had a better life with Stevens than with her current husband—whom she’s left multiple times—and when Stevens registers what he’s hearing, he tells us:
I do not think I responded immediately, for it took me a moment or two to fully digest these words of Miss Kenton. Moreover, as you might appreciate, their implications were such as to provoke a certain degree of sorrow within me. Indeed—why should I not admit it?—at that moment, my heart was breaking. Before long, however…
At this moment, all of Stevens’ defenses crumble, which he recognizes as well, acknowledging that he’s been hiding from the reader and from himself, but he instantly returns to his usual self, making the moment all the more tragic.
I thought of these scenes recently when reading and writing about Sebastian Castillo’s new novel, Fresh, Green Life. The novel finishes with the narrator, Sebastián, on a train home on New Year’s Day, shortly after midnight. He’s just been duped into visiting his former professor for what should have been a New Year’s party with old classmates—in particular, an unrequited love interest—but the event turns out to be a confrontation between the professor and Sebastián; no one else has been invited. On the train, he thinks he sees this old classmate—Maria—but he’s mistaken here as well. This causes him to experience “an episode of dissociation” where it seems the consequences of hiding from himself will be made apparent, yet he holds his nerve, calming himself down with a breathing technique and a remembered fragment of Descartes.
Then another person enters the train, sitting directly across from Sebastián. As with Jane and Mr. Rochester, or Stevens and Lord Darlington, Sebastián will now be seen from the outside. Here’s how Castillo writes it:
This young man wore an oversized sweater, and on his shoulder slung a tote bag with a famous Japanese cartoon character drawn on the side. He wore a thin mustache and had loose, curly hair on the top of his head, though the sides were shaved. Plugged into his ear were white wireless headphones, the kind all my students wore all the time. We made eye contact briefly and when I registered a slight shock in his face, I realized it was because I had been crying, and tears streaked my cheeks. He removed a book from his bag and began reading.
Let’s compare the four instances of crying being registered by a character other than the narrator.
In Jane Eyre: “a few more words would bring tears to your eyes—indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming…”
In The Remains of the Day: “You look as though you’re crying.”
…
“Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie?”
In Fresh, Green Life: “We made eye contact briefly and when I registered a slight shock in his face, I realized it was because I had been crying, and tears streaked my cheeks.”
The first three use dialogue whereas Castillo’s moment is slightly different; it still takes another character for Sebastián to admit that he’s been crying, but the other character doesn’t say anything. Instead, his facial expression makes it so Sebastián can no longer hide from the reader. We understand the act Sebastián has been putting on (although in truth, we’ve realized this already) and this point drives it home.
First person narratives—especially those with highly unreliable narrators—need to include these moments when the narrator’s grip on the novel is broken, loosened so that we can see the truth outside of their subjective point of view. These instances make the narrators relatable and sympathetic, and seeing their delusions cast in relief, we too are invited to consider the ways we hide from ourselves and those around us.
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