Possibly this is the Zombie Cold talking or possibly this is some kind of literary insight. I'm reading The Remains of the Day and I'm reading it fast to have it done with because Ishiguro is doing what Ishiguro does so well. Meaning, I'm fighting off anxiety attacks from the low-key but settled sense of menace implicit in his utterly mundane narrator's narration. There are rotting human remains in the middle of that bland English field or hidden in those overgrown English hedgerows, and in a minute I'll see them.
I don't know how he does it but I wish he'd stop and let Stevens go back to being what he should be, which is an eccentric character in one of Jack Aubrey's ships.
(I also wish my Nyquil would come out of hiding so I could dry my nose up overnight.)