The Buried Giant begins as a couple set off across a troubled land of mist and rain in the hope of finding a son they have not seen in years. Maybe he left in anger; maybe he didn't. Maybe they meant to see him years ago; maybe they didn't. It comes up in faded half-remembered conversations, and then drifts off again, until they themselves drift off in their quest and find a country that often drifts in much the same way. They face dragons and invaders and monsters and strange encounters, and they cling to the memory of their goal as they travel on. 
 The more I think about this, the more I wonder if Ishiguro really meant to talk about the nature of memory itself rather than the fantasy implications, and how truly fleeting and fragile it is, and I am absolutely projecting my own experiences onto the allusions of the book. 
 My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's when I was 13. I lived next door to my grandparents, and so I became a witness to his suffering and a participant in his care by virtue of that proximity. And from some of the reactions of the couple in The Buried Giant, it makes me wonder if Ishiguro has some personal experience with the tragedy that is the loss of self with the loss of memory. Their total confusion and anger at the loss of their candle, and their general sense of ephemeral purpose and history seem very familiar to me, and maybe it made the book that much more poignant in the end. 
 But the thing that really drove home his point about the elusive nature of memory is when I discussed this with my grandmother a couple of weeks ago. I felt a sense of shame about my grandfather's care -- I was a young teenager, and young teenagers are how they are and I remember nothing but a general and gradual distancing from him because I was uncomfortable and didn't know how to respond to someone who was losing everything he ever was. What she pointed out to me was that I was an active participant in his care in an age-appropriate manner -- she'd go grocery shopping, for instance, and I'd come over and read while he was napping to make sure he didn't wake up confused and go on walkabout. I have absolutely no memory of this whatsoever. My memory has completely rewritten itself to protect me from something I found uncomfortable and sad. It's strange to know that. 
 Ishiguro's The Buried Giant is not an exciting adventure. It is not pulpy fun. It is a sleepy journey across a land that is sometimes frightening and always strange in search of something not quite understood. It is literary and quiet, and sometimes I struggled with it. But I'm glad I read it.