Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nocturnes is a collection of five stories about musicians, all of which come to their climax at nighttime. In theory it sounds like a gimmick, but this common thread ties the stories together into a fugue on love and art: not art that brings us together, but art that reflects and magnifies the distances between us. Several of the stories in this book turn to comedy in a way that may seem new to fans of the author, but when I think back on them, it is the undercurrent of grief in them that stays with me.

A hallmark of Ishiguro’s writing is its otherworldliness. His fiction often reads as though it exists in a parallel universe: everything in it seems familiar, but slightly skewed and almost haunted. These short stories are no exception; They burrow deep into your brain, and in the days after reading them, bits and pieces will jump out to surprise you, making you want to go back and reread his works with a more complete understanding of them. Fans of Jhumpa Lahiri and other short literary fiction will find much to enjoy here. ( )

A collection of short stories about music and nightfall says the blurb. But I would suggest another theme - that of pride. Characters in these stories seem often to be adversely affected by pride when the rest of their character seems sympathetic. Here, pride stands between individuals disabling acts of kindness and repelling altruism with a warning growl and a dog in a manger curl of the lips.

Many reviews are damning in their slight praise of this collection, expecting greater fireworks, perhaps from Ishiguro. But I found them relaxing and settling, I feel very safe and protected in the hands of Ishiguro and the only story where I thought I detected a fumble was the title story, Nocturne but then I dislike comedy scenes. I particularly enjoyed the opening story, Crooner and Malvern Hills. This book is not the disappointment that others have suggested. ( )

Who knew that Kazuo Ishiguro had screwball comedy in him? I mean, really? There are two stories in this book that are absolutely laugh-out-loud funny. Not at all what I expect from Ishiguro, who is usually all subtlety, with a solemn wit and sadness that creep up under your skin when you least expect it. The first and last stories, "Crooner" and "Cellists" are the closest to Ishiguro in his most classic form, but I have to say I'm completely surprised by how effective "Come Rain or Come Shine" and "Nocturne" were at blending that creeping sadness with out-and-out zaniness. "Malvern Hills" was, in my opinion, the least effective of these five stories. This is definitely not my favorite Ishiguro, but I do admire him for reaching outside of his usual comfort zone, and I think he mostly succeeds at this. ( )

Disappointing. This came highly recommended by one of my favorite library volunteers, but, aside from the first story in the collection, I found the rest dull and uninspiring, populated by characters I did not care a whit about. ( )

It's not his magnificent The Remains of the Day, one of the better books I've read, but it is a very good book. Five short stories, very lightly interwoven, about itinerant musicians (and one itinerant English teacher) and their world.

I liked the way Ishiguro used American English when his narrators are American (or East European), but English English when they're Brits - but maybe that's banal when dealing with a master wordsmith. His depiction of the itinerant's world was new to me: folks who spend their career on the edge of the normative family-work-walking-the-dog-saving-for-retirement world, indeed, they live off that world and encounter it every day, without any apparent feeling of regret for not being in it. Artists who make a living from their art, without high-flying aspirations nor the despondency of not achieving them.

Not that they all live lives of serene contentment: if so, what would the author write about? Most face a flaw in their lives, or several of them; and the stories are not about how they get resolved, either. It being reality Ishiguro would like to comment on, none of the flaws actually go away. At best, they evolve, moving from one state to another. As Jane says in Mr. and Mrs. Smith - hardly a profound cultural creation, that - happy ending are merely stories that haven't ended yet. Ishiguro, however, can be profound, and this is a wistful book, beautifully written, that may well cause you to notice the band in a cafe alongside a piazza in a new way. ( )