Some version of this desexualized triangle — the troubled couple, the outside observer — appears in each of the stories. So, too, do the conundrums concerning life choices and artistic careers. In Crooner, the ageing singer is divorcing his wife, whom he loves, in order to stage a comeback: showbiz rules demand it, and if he does it now she’ll be young enough to marry another star. When she appears again in Nocturnes, she puts up a spirited defense in an argument about the relative claims of high-minded giftedness and hustling mediocrity. In Cellists, by contrast, a self-proclaimed virtuoso turns out never to have learned to play (“The crucial thing was not to damage my gift”). But while some of the stories have Somerset Maugham-like plot hooks, they move delicately around their themes. There are no easy epiphanies, and the concentration on musicians brings a further layer of ambiguity, since the reader can’t assess the players’ skills or lack thereof.
Like Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro’s most recent novel, Nocturnes is mostly written in a deliberately non-vivid, quasi-spoken style, more discursive and less formal than that of his earlier books. The narrators use a lot of phrases along the lines of, “The truth is ... ” and, “Okay, I’ve told you before, I’m no stickler ... ” and a lot of the idiom is subtly off-key: English isn’t every character’s first language. Patiently ventriloquizing these unpracticed storytellers, Ishiguro leaves the reader in no doubt about his skill at pacing and structuring narratives. There are two very funny scenes in the book, along with some bleak lines of argument, and while many of the stories hinge on artistic talent — the risks and unkindnesses associated with it; who’s got it and who hasn’t — the strong focus on more widespread problems in life makes Nocturnes more than a writer’s thoughts on his job.
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