Washington — Kazuo Ishiguro writes prose that appears to be doing nothing at all. At the end, though, you close one of his books gingerly, rub your eyes and stare into the middle-air for who can say how long.

The “emotional force” that won him the Nobel prize for literature is achieved through that very stiffness of language. It is the language of narrators who are in denial about something. As his publishers trail his first post-Prize novel — expect it, and perhaps a film, next year — we can only salute this cradle-to-grave devotee of his craft.

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