One motif at the very core of Never Let Me Go is the way out-groups form in-groups: the marginalised are not exempt from doing their own marginalisation. Even as they die, some of the donors form a proud, cruel little clique, excluding Kathy H because, not being a donor yet, she can’t really understand.
The book is also about our cannibalisation of others to ensure we ourselves prosper. The children are human sacrifices, offered up on the altar of improved health for the population at large. The reluctance of Kathy H and her pals to confront what awaits them – pain, mutilation, death – may account for the curious lack of physicality in Kathy’s descriptions of their life. Nobody eats anything much in this book, nobody smells anything; even the sex is oddly bloodless. But landscapes, buildings and the weather are intensely present. It’s as if Kathy has invested a lot of her sense of self in things removed from her own body, and thus less likely to be injured
Finally, the book is about our wish to do well. The children’s poignant desire – to be a “good carer”, then to be a “good donor” – is heartbreaking. This is what traps them in their cage. None of them thinks about running away, or about revenge upon the “normal” society. In Ishiguro’s world, as in our own, most people do what they’re told.
Tellingly, two words recur. One is “normal”. The other is “supposed”, as in the last words of the book: “wherever it was that I was supposed to be going”. Who defines “normal”? Who tells us where we are supposed to be going? Such questions are always with us, and become crucial in times of stress.
The people in Never Let Me Go aren’t heroic; the ending is not comforting. Nevertheless, this is a brilliantly executed book by a master craftsman who has chosen a difficult subject: ourselves, seen through a glass, darkly.