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Cultural displacement and the mother-daughter relationship in Kazuo Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills.

When Kazuo Ishiguro's most recent novel Never Let Me Go was published in 2005, the work received immediate attention and accolades. In the twenty years since the publication in 1982 of his first novel A Pale View of Hills, followed by five novels (An Artist of the Floating World [1986], The Remains of the Day [1989], The Unconsoled [1995], When We Were Orphans [2000], and Never Let Me Go), television scripts (A Profile of Arthur J. Mason [1984] and The Gourmet [1986]) and a film screenplay (The Saddest Music in the World), Ishiguro's stature as a major writer has been established, as critical and popular interest in his work has steadily increased and he has won major literary prizes including the Whitbread Book of the Year Award and the Booker Prize for Fiction (Lewis xi-xiii). Much of the academic interest in Ishiguro's work has centered on his imaginative and skillful narrative technique, a technique first experimented with in A Pale View of Hills.

Summarizing A Pale View of Hills is complicated by the way in which the story is told, a story which weaves between present and past, reality and memories, major historical and private family events. Etsuko, the narrator of the story, is a middle-aged mother who has transplanted her daughter Keiko from Japan to England in order that Etsuko can marry an English journalist with whom she eventually has a second daughter Niki. The narrative focuses on Etsuko's review of her troubling past, including the loss of her entire family during the bombing of Nagasaki, her unhappy first marriage, the strange relationship with a neighbor she met in Nagasaki during her first pregnancy, and the recent suicide of her daughter Keiko after their move to England. What critics all note about A Pale View of Hills is the striking quality of ambiguity, an ambiguity in the storytelling technique, the motivations of the narrator and other characters, and the elusive truths sought by the narrator. However, critics have examined the source of the ambiguity from a variety of perspectives. Hermione Lee identifies a linguistic source, focusing on the way in which Ishiguro employs a language of paradox. Pico Iyer claims the stylistic penchant for ambiguity in all of Ishiguro's works derives from his roots in Japanese culture; he concludes that "all three of his novels have that same ink-wash elusiveness, an ellipticism almost violent in its reticence" (181). Focusing on setting and historical context, Barry Lewis, who employs postcolonial and deconstructionist principles of cultural displacement, concludes that the novel "is a study of the unhomeliness and displacements created by a family suicide and a nuclear genocide" (44). On the other hand, Cynthia F. Wong draws from reader-response theory and argues that the ambiguity in the story stems from the nature of memory and Etsuko's divided narrative, concluding that "she [Etsuko] is a reader of her own life who is interpreting its significance from the distance of time and space" (Kazuo Ishiguro 35). Taking a psychological approach, Brian Shaffer sees A Pale View of Hills as shaped by mythmaking, as it examines the complex psychological impact of the trauma Etsuko has experienced.

This study of A Pale View of Hills builds on these various interpretations but adds to it an exploration of how the central mother-daughter relationship compounds the various levels of ambiguity. Central to this examination is the nature of the role of mother--a role which demands that one make choices and take responsibility for children, but which does not allow control over the ultimate happiness or well-being of those children. Because of the pressures that Etsuko experiences in fulfilling this role as mother, she strives to fix in her imagination a portrait of herself as a good mother; however, she is plagued, instead, by a blurring blend of images of motherhood that produces both anguish and solace, revealing the very nature of the mother role. Thus, unlike other studies of A Pale View of Hills, this study focuses on the mother-daughter relationship between Etsuko and Niki, influenced by their other relationships, but defined by their struggle to understand and fulfill their roles and achieve an identity beyond those roles, and on how Ishiguro employs mental images as a means to tell their story. It is this relationship and its narrative implications that have been neglected by other critics; it is this relationship that augments the ambiguity but also produces the tenuous hopefulness achieved in the narrative.

To begin the examination of the mother-daughter relationship, it is helpful to identify Etsuko's assessment of it. The pivotal event that frames the novel is Niki's five-day visit to see her mother after Keiko's recent suicide by hanging and the earlier death of Niki's father. The second paragraph of the novel provides Etsuko's summary of the visit:
   She came to see me earlier this year, in April, when the days
   were still cold and drizzly. Perhaps she had intended to stay
   longer. I do not know. But my country house and the quiet
   that surrounds it made her restless, and before long I could
   see she was anxious to return to her life in London.... She
   left after five days. (9)


In this short passage, the reader is introduced to a mother and daughter who have come together temporarily, but exposed within the gap between "she came" and "she left" is the impression of an uneasy relationship, suggested by the intimations of gratefulness, tension, confusion, disappointment, and regret, some of the most common and powerful emotions of any mother-daughter relationship.

During the five-day visit, mother and daughter make faltering overtures to each other; in the end, they are not reconciled, but tenuous progress toward connection has been made. The daughter journeyed home to a place that ideally should, through its associations, "constitute a vital source of both individual and cultural identity and security" (Relph 43) for both mother and daughter. Etsuko expresses this hope in a conversation with Niki as they walk toward the house one day; Etsuko recalls when her husband first brought her to this house: "I was thinking how truly like England everything looked. All these fields, and the house too. It was just the way I always imagined England would and I was so pleased" (182). As Marilyn Chandler argues in Dwelling in the Text, "for many ethnic writers in a state of unbelonging, as new immigrants or exiles, the objective of home ownership especially signifies the move towards belonging to, as well as owning, a corner of the world" (1). Although Etsuko does not express herself directly, she is projecting her "concern with place and displacement" and her unspoken hope that in declaring this place her home, she will recover "an effective identifying relationship between self and place" (Ashcroft, Griffiths and Tiffin 8, 9).

However, what Etsuko could not have anticipated was that this house would acquire its "own identit[y] created by the events that [took] place within [its] wall[s]" (Grice 203), shaping its inhabitants. The novel, then, relates the story of those events and people, particularly those surrounding Keiko and her suicide, and the impact all this has had on Etsuko and Niki's relationship. It is Keiko's death that brings mother and daughter together, but neither understands nor can communicate what it signifies. Thus for Niki and Etsuko, the reality of this house is that it is an uncomfortable space, a space where they share disconnected conversations, distance, and nightmares, a space inhabited by ghosts, silence, and death. As Etsuko says, "For although we never dwelt long on the subject of Keiko's death, it was never far away, hovering over us whenever we talked" (10), occupying the gap between mother and daughter. In a metaphorical sense, the house holds the secret of Keiko, rendering Etsuko silent and Niki restless.

For Etsuko, Keiko holds the key to her apprehension as mother, a role that defines, yet frightens her. After Keiko's recent suicide, Etsuko is unable to expunge the horrible image "of [her] daughter hanging in her room for days on end" (54). As a mother, Etsuko knows that she is responsible for nurturing, sheltering, and protecting her daughter; yet she senses that she is the antithesis of "mother", the cause of her daughter's unhappiness and death. Trying to make sense of her daughter's death and her role as mother, Etsuko examines her past; the following facts emerge: as a teenager, Etsuko lost her family and home in Nagasaki during the atomic bombing; Etsuko went to live with a neighbor family and eventually married their son Jiro, with whom she had the daughter Keiko; when Keiko was still a young girl, Etsuko divorced Jiro and moved to England to marry a British journalist, with whom she had a daughter Niki; shortly before the present time of the narrative, Niki's father had died and Keiko, who had moved away from home to Manchester, England, had committed suicide. However, for Etsuko, it is not the facts that are important or that explain the present.

Instead, the novel becomes the story of Etsuko's painful process of reviewing her life to sort out why choices were made and at what cost. As Etsuko herself confesses, "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" (156). Salman Rushdie suggests it is these "shards of memory" that through "fragmentation" acquire "greater status, greater resonance," making "trivial things seem like symbols, and the mundane" that achieve "numinous qualities" (12). But there is also in Etsuko's story, as Mark Wormald suggests, "a compulsion to confess compet[ing], in tone, with a casual but devastating tendency to disguise" (228). According to Cynthia Wong, memories "serve not to explain the past as much as to set it in the perspective of the present, with the reader's emerging realization that a comprehensible past is finally impossible" ("The Shame of Memory" screen 6). Applying Blanchot's theories, Wong concludes that there are no words to explain the pain felt by Etsuko and Keiko; there is only silence which "serves as affirmation of destruction's aftermath; verbal consolation could only exist at the margins of the pain of truth and loss" (screen 7). In fact, the "unspeakable" can be both "the unutterably horrible or monstrous, and that which can't be said"; thus, "it is possible to arrive at the unspeakable by way of the unspoken" (Wood 177). Unable to express explicitly the effect of her countless losses, Etsuko resorts to an endless internal contemplation of images from her past. It is through these images that Etsuko considers "the familiar with the help of distance" and reveals "the reality of [her] inward life which becomes strong and more tangible as [her] outward life becomes alien"; thus she exposes her "chronic need for stasis in a changing world, a need which only memory can satisfy" and which becomes "ultimately the question of homecoming" (Gurr 32).

To capture Etsuko's story, Ishiguro employs the technique of a narrator who speaks on two levels: Etsuko narrates her perception of present events in a rather dispassionate voice, but as she begins to explore her past, the reader becomes aware of how conflicted and emotionally charged Etsuko's memories are. Adding to the complexity of the narration is the fact that as Etsuko processes her past, she often substitutes characters for one another and blends dreams with real events. For example, she repeatedly returns to the early period of her marriage in post-war Nagasaki when she was awaiting the birth of Keiko and developed a friendship with Sachiko and Sachiko's daughter Mariko. Sachiko has emerged from an abusive marriage and has decided to move to America with Frank, whom Mariko describes as "like a pig" (Ishiguro 172). As Etsuko tells her story, the parallels between Sachiko and Etsuko and between Mariko and Keiko become obvious. In fact, as Brian Shaffer suggests, "Sachiko and Mariko function less as 'real' individuals than as individuals onto whom Etsuko can project her own guilt for neglecting and abusing Keiko" (21).

Most often, Etsuko's story of her past centers on a series of images inspired by an actual event from the present moment, which, as she contemplates them, begin to weave back and forth through time and levels of consciousness until they gain symbolic but shifting meaning. For example, one day during Niki's visit, she and Etsuko see a child happily swinging in the park (95). This image of the swinging child emerges in Etsuko's dreams and when she mentions it to Niki, the memory of the dreams triggers recollections of Sachiko and their life in Nagasaki. Before long, in her mind, Etsuko has created a mixed image of variations and associations: her memory of media warnings in Nagasaki just after the war about child murders, including a report of a "little girl ... found hanging from a tree (100); the story of the ghost woman whom Mariko saw dangling and drowning her baby (74); her own memory of finding a rope around her foot one night as she searched for Mariko, who sensed the ominous implications of the rope (83); and, of course, the recurring nightmare of Keiko hanging in her room (54). Thus, the real image of the happily swinging child of the present becomes a murky image of various abused or murdered children from the past.

Juxtaposed against the image of the precarious swinging child is the image of "mother." In Etsuko's mind, there are two sides to this image, the ghost woman Sachiko and Mrs. Fujiwara, an old family friend in Nagasaki. The ghost mother, who hovers around Mariko and eerily beckons her into the swampy area by the river, is eventually identified as the woman whom Mariko witnessed just after the war drowning her baby in the canal before taking her own life. The Sachiko-mother is a mixed image of a mother who is a disengaged, self-absorbed, murderous figure; who recklessly pursues an abusive relationship with Frank, the American man she plans to marry; who says that her "daughter's welfare is of utmost importance" (44) and then lets Mariko skip school, fight with children, and wander into the night alone; who callously drowns Mariko's kittens, warning her that she "simply can't have these sentimental attachments for ever" (165). On the other hand, the Mrs. Fujiwara-mother is a self-sacrificing, nurturing, optimistic figure who, in spite of having lost her husband and all of her children except one son, fixes her attention on the future; who, in spite of having once been a woman of status, industriously sets up a noodle shop to support herself; and provides Etsuko with maternal comfort, reassuring her that she will be a splendid mother.

By reviewing these images from her past, Etsuko had hoped to understand herself and her daughters; instead, her inward contemplations demonstrate the impossibility of humans being "capable of knowing themselves" and being "largely responsible for the course of their lives" (Scanlan 139). As Margaret Scanlan argues, identity in Ishiguro's novels "is not an essence but instead depends on a social context," constantly in flux, leaving characters like Etsuko "floating in an unfamiliar world" (141) For Etsuko, the cluster of images associated with swinging children and mothers provides her with no definitive portrait or answers, but does suggest the range of possibilities and judgments that she faces about her past and her identity as a mother: a child can swing carefree in the park with her mother or be murdered at the hands of her mother; a mother can sacrifice everything for the sake of one child or the mother can sacrifice her child for her own happiness; a mother can focus on the rubble of the past or on a pale view of a future. All that Etsuko can do is consider the possibilities; then she seems able to see that she may not be Mrs. Fujiwara but she is also not the ghost woman, or even Sachiko.

But Etsuko's struggle to come to terms with her identity as mother is compounded by the element of cultural displacement for herself and her daughters. Edward Relph suggest that "to have roots in a place is to have a secure point from which to look out on the world, a firm grasp of one's own position in the order of things, and a significant spiritual and psychological attachment to somewhere in particular" (38). Etsuko's problem is that she has denied her children this security and they must all live with the consequences. Helena Grice notes that texts that deal with mother-daughter relationships and cultural displacement generally emphasize the adolescent perspectives (37). Although the novel includes the daughter's perspective in an indirect way, the main focus, guided by Etsuko's point of view, is on the mother's perspective. Thus, the emphasis is on exploring how and why the cultural displacement occurred, rather than on the impact that such displacement has on children. It is not until Etsuko has thoroughly explored her own motivations and history that she can begin to imagine the impact her choice of moving from Japan to England has had on her daughters.

Although Etsuko can only speak indirectly and through images, what becomes clear is that Etsuko's life had been shattered by her war experience in Nagasaki. In the bombing, she lost her family and home; she became an orphan, whom Ogata-san, her father-in-law, remembers as wandering aimlessly in the night playing her violin. Compounding her personal loss and the physical destruction of Nagasaki was the dismantling of the "values long held sacred in ... Japanese society, and it split the Japanese into generational factions" so the "the older generation lost faith in the younger while the latter held the former responsible for unspeakable acts" (Wong, "The Shame of Memory" screen 9). All this is epitomized by the persistent conflict between Jiro and Ogata-san, which the young Etsuko tries unsuccessfully to mitigate. The early memories of marriage in Nagasaki are dominated by the men in her life; her husband treats her like a recalcitrant maid, while her father-in-law shows her affection, but the house where he once planted azaleas in Etsuko's honor has been sold and the pre-war social and family order that Ogata-san symbolized has been destroyed. There is little room in the chess game played by father and son for a woman. In addition, we hear the suggestions of wife abuse through the stories of Sachiko (Shaffer 15), whose husband was strict and inconsiderate, and the story of Jiro's business associate who recounts how he threatened to beat his wife with a golf club for voting differently from him (Ishiguro 63).

Considering the layers of trauma and the hopelessness of Etsuko's situation, we can imagine that Sachiko's words--"Japan is no place for a girl. What can she look forward to here?"(170)--would have resonated with and perhaps motivated Etsuko. Although "Etsuko has taken the risk of changing her life and her loyalties and has to live with the consequences of that decision" (Hall 104)--including the death of Keiko--Wong suggests she does so to seek "self-integrity and forgiveness at a historical moment when such qualities of human strength were in short supply" (Kazuo Ishiguro 37). The Nagasaki bombing had destroyed her personal world, the cultural values and social order of the past, and marginalized women like Etsuko so that her leaving Japan and Jiro represents more than the "daring choices made by a seemingly conventional Japanese woman" (Wong, Kazuo Ishiguro 35); Etsuko implies that the cultural displacement, in spite of the trauma that is eventually produced for her and her children, was the only choice available to her; she sees, as Laura Hall suggests, post-war Japan as "a site of flux and transience," a "deliberate contrast to the unchanging rhythms of life in the English village" where Etsuko goes to live (102). Although she obviously feels compelled to exchange the chaos of her past in Japan for the hope of peace in England, it is not until years later that she fully recognizes the consequences of that choice and can express the nostalgia for all that she has lost; she comments to Niki, "It's not a bad thing at all the old Japanese way" (Ishiguro 181). Hauntingly, it is only in the context of her current turmoil and pain that she nostalgically uses "memory to go back to a place "that she imagines to be better than the one" she finds herself in the present (McKenzie 8).

In spite of her rationalizations, Etsuko looks to Niki for the absolution and comfort she cannot get from Keiko. Sensing her mother's burden of guilt over the Keiko's death, Niki tells her mother, "I suppose Dad should have looked after her a bit more, shouldn't he? He ignored her most of the time. It wasn't fair really" (175). In another instance when Etsuko confesses to having brought Keiko to England, even though she knew Keiko wouldn't be happy, Niki responds, "You did everything you could for her. You're the last person anyone could blame" (176); she goes on to say, "Sometimes you've got to take risks. You did exactly the right thing. You can't just watch your life waste away" (176). As Etsuko says, she is grateful that "in recent years [Niki] had taken it upon herself to admire certain aspects of my past, and she had come prepared to tell me things were no different now, that I should have no regrets for the choice I once made. In short, to reassure me I was not responsible for Keiko's death" (10).

But Niki is also haunted by Keiko's ghost and shares her mother's sense of guilt. Applying the discourse of space whereby "space is often used as a metaphor for the dynamics of identity" (Grice 199), the nature of Keiko's dysfunctional personality is revealed through the way in which she inhabits the family home. During this visit home, Niki is disturbed by the "strange spell" that Keiko's room, and Keiko by extension, continues to exert; she recalls when Keiko lived at home, she had no friends and locked herself in her room, only occasionally venturing out and causing everyone to "feel a great tension" (Ishiguro 54). As Avtar Brah suggests, "The question of home ... is intrinsically linked with the way in which processes of inclusion or exclusion operate and are subjectively experienced" (192). Clearly, Keiko's experience with home, both in terms of living in England and her family home, is shaped by exclusion and alienation. In fact, when Niki declares, "she was never part of our lives--not mine or Dad's anyway" (Ishiguro 52), she is suggesting not just a familial divide but a cultural divide between herself and both her sister and her mother. In part, Niki, "as a 'hyphenated' ethnic subject [feels] alienated from her mother, more rooted as [her] mother ... is in the ancestral/'mother' culture" (Grice 45). According to Grice, "the daughter's differing social and cultural embeddedness thus often results in a barrier between mother-figure and mother culture" (45). As Etsuko clarifies, Niki, who, unlike herself and Keiko, is not "pure Japanese" (Ishiguro 10), may share the kind of cultural ignorance that Etsuko detected in the newspaper accounts of Keiko's death. They had reported only that Keiko "was Japanese and that she had hung herself in her room" (10), revealing, as Etsuko says, the English stereotype "that our race [the Japanese] has an instinct for suicide" (10).

Certainly, Niki has made choices in her current life that baffle Etsuko. Niki has chosen to leave home to live happily in London with her boyfriend, whom she has no plans to marry. Niki bristles at Etsuko's expressed desire that she marry and have children. As Niki is packing to leave, Etsuko asks whether she plans to have a child and then says, "I had this passing fancy just now to be a grandmother" (48). Niki argues that "so many women just get brainwashed. They think all there is to life is getting married and having a load of kids" (180). She cannot comprehend Etsuko's response, "But in the end, Niki, there isn't very much else" (189). For Niki, the idea of having "a lot of screaming kids" around her is repulsive (48); it evokes the repression she saw her mother endure personally and as a Japanese woman of another generation. Furthermore, she may fear that she, like Etsuko, will not be an adequate mother, that she may have a daughter like Keiko, whom she might be unable to love or put before herself. Thus, Etsuko's reassurances that she is not "ashamed" of Niki and her instructions that "It's very important you lead your own life now" (177) are not adequate to assuage Niki's discomfort.

In this context, Niki's final act before leaving home is particularly poignant. Niki describes how a poet-friend of hers who has "been through a lot," wants Niki to bring back a photo or something "just so she can see what everything was like" for Etsuko (177) and from that material, she plans to write a poem. It is possible that Niki, like her mother, uses the poet-friend as a substitute for herself; in which case, this is her personal request to know her mother's story. What Etsuko gives her is an old calendar picture of the Hills of Inasa, "a view of the harbour in Nagasaki" (182), which she shrugs off as merely "a happy memory" (182). From Etsuko's earlier contemplation of the day that she, Sachiko, and Mariko went to the Hills of Inasa, it is clear that the memories associated with that place hold the key to understanding Etsuko, for whom this memory represented hope and the future. Recalling the day, Etsuko remembers enjoying "a magnificent view" (105) of the reconstruction of Nagasaki as she comments that "everything looks so full of life" (110). Caught up in the excitement of reconstruction, even Sachiko expresses an unexpected hopefulness, "we shouldn't keep looking back to the past. The war destroyed many things for me, but I still have my daughter. As you say, we have to keep looking forward" (111) and then concludes by emphasizing, "We may have lost a lot in the war, but there's still so much to look forward to" (112).

In addition to the memory of a healing country, Etsuko, who remembers the day as one when Keiko was happy, has transposed Keiko for Mariko (since Keiko had not been born yet). Thus, the description of Mariko on that day becomes an indirect impression of Keiko's potential for happiness. On that day, Mariko had been praised for using her imagination to draw a beautiful butterfly. She had enjoyed a rare moment of power over the bullying boy when she kicked him out of the tree and reduced him to tears. Later that day, Mariko had been excited to win a box that she could turn into a safe home for her orphan kittens.

Although Etsuko remembered the day at the Hills of Inasa as a pleasant memory, there are nagging hints of the impending danger that foreshadow Etsuko and Keiko's future pain. An American woman is culturally insensitive, which suggests cultural tension; the bully criticizes Mariko's artistic perspective, suggesting gender tension; the boy's mother brags that her husband is a "Head Director of Mitsubishi Corporation" (116), suggesting class tension. In addition, as Etsuko and Sachiko return home with Mariko excitedly clutching the box that will be her kittens' home, the ghost woman appears in the shadows, interjecting the danger of the murderous mother. All these undercurrents emphasize the many levels of damage that eventually propelled Etsuko to leave Japan for a better place to raise her daughter. In fact, at one point in the scene, in a particularly revealing exchange with a woman who asks about Etsuko's pregnancy, Etsuko refers to Keiko as "it" (118), foreshadowing the ambivalent feelings she will eventually have for Keiko.

Only if Etsuko can gradually break her silence and Niki calm her restlessness, will mother and daughter be able to turn this jumble of maternal images into the words of a daughter's poem, paying tribute to a mother and providing freedom for a daughter. Ironically, for this to happen, Etsuko must let go of her past and Niki must gain access to that past. Etsuko must remind herself of this problem, as she does in the very first paragraph of the novel:
   Niki, the name we finally gave my younger daughter, is not an
   abbreviation it was a compronuse 1 reached with her father. For
   paradoxically it was he who wanted to give her a Japanese name, and
   I--perhaps out of some selfish desire not to be reminded of the
   past--insisted on an English one. He finally agreed to Niki, thinking
   it had some vague echo of the East about it. (9)


Niki is her compromise: she is a daughter who needs a mother to reassure her and encourage her to make her own choices; she is a bridge between Etsuko's past in Japan and her future in England.

Towards the end of the novel, Etsuko comments to Niki that she is thinking of selling her house. Etsuko has endured displacement in several senses: "[T]here is the geographical displacement of Etsuko from Japan to England; the cognitive displacement induced by Etsuko's memories; the psychological displacement between herself and Sachiko; and the familial displacement precipitated by the suicide of Keiko" (Lewis 27). Thus it is easy to see "her search for self is also the search for place and the desire for home" (Grice 201). Niki, once again, provides the impetus for reconsideration and comfort; she remarks, "But it's a really nice house," suggesting through the house-metaphor that Etsuko is a worthy mother deserving the comforts of home. In the last scene of the novel, Niki leaves the house for her home in London as Etusko watches from her doorway. Etsuko recognizes the tension in Niki, whom she describes as leaving "with an oddly self-conscious air, as if she were leaving without my approval.". When Niki glances back and seems "surprised" to see her mother at the door, it is because she cannot yet comprehend a mother's longing, love, and fear or her desperate hope that "all is well": this is a mother struggling to let her daughters go--one must be accepted as irretrievable except through troubling memories and the other must be allowed to come and go as she boldly makes her own choices in a dangerous world of uncertainty (183).

Thus, the complicated story Etsuko tells is not founded on deceit, fabrications, or lies, as many critics have argued; the very nature of motherhood involves a complex web of facts that get interpreted and reinterpreted over time through the lens of nostalgia, sympathy, fear, and shame. The convoluted manner in which she tells the story is her way of "putting her first daughter to rest in her memory, so that she may focus on her remaining daughter" (Wong, Kazuo Ishiguro 28). A Pale View of Hills demonstrates that the nature of mother and daughter is that neither can be understood merely by unearthing the identity of the individuals in those roles; the nature of each is that it is based on a relationship, a relationship in which perspectives vary and needs compete, often resulting in silence and restlessness.

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Brah, Avtar. Cartographies of Diaspora: Contesting Identities. London: Routledge, 2002.

Chandler, Marilyn R. Dwelling the Text: Houses in American Fiction. Berkeley: U of California P, 1991.

Grice, Helena. Negotiating Identities: An Introduction to Asian American Women's Writing. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2002.

Gurr, Andrew. Writers in Exile: The Identity of Home in Modern Literature. New Jersey: Humanities P, 1981.

Hall, Laura. "New Nations. New Selves: The Novels of Timothy Mo and Kazuo Ishiguro." Other Britain, Other British: Contemporary Multicultural Fiction. Ed. A. Robert Lee. London: Pluto, 1995.

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Wong, Cynthia F. Kazuo Ishiguro. Horndon, UK: Northcote House, 2000.

--. "The Shame of Memory: Blanchot's Self-Dispossession in Ishiguro's A Pale View Of Hills." CLIO 24.2 (1995): 127-46. Infotrac. Gale. ELM, MN. 9 Apr. 2004 <http://web5.infotrac.galegroup.com/>

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Wormald, Mark. "Kazoo Ishiguro and the Work of Art." Contemporary British Fiction. Ed. Richard J. Land. Rod Mengham, and Philip Tew. Cambridge, UK: Polity P, 2003. 226-38.

RUTH FORSYTHE

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH

WINONA STATE UNIVERSITY

WINONA, MINNESOTA
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Date:Sep 22, 2005
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