|Kazuo Ishiguro (1954- )|
Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers, and no doubt this applies to certain of the recollections I have gathered here. For instance, I find it tempting to persuade myself it was a premonition I experienced that afternoon, that the unpleasant image which entered my thoughts that day was something altogether different -- something much more intense and vivid -- than the numerous day-dreams which drift through one's imagination during such long and empty hours.
In all possibility, it was nothing so remarkable. The tragedy of the little girl found hanging from a tree -- much more so than the earlier child murders -- had made a shocked impression on the neighbourhood, and I could not have been alone that summer in being disturbed by such images.
A Pale View of Hills