Probably Morgan's finest
effort. His musings on genetics and social hierarchy are fascinating, no doubt, but it starts to lean towards hectoring as the novel goes along. Only in the Coda does the lecturing pay off, spewed out of the mouth of the novel's shadowy antagonist: an alarming point on the definition, and nature, of humanity which throws off-stride the genetic assumptions bandied about all throughout what went before.
All else wilts on second glance: a tawdry love affair writ larger than it ever was, a convoluted, uncoiling conspiracy which shreds the targets Morgan loves to defile (i.e. the indiscriminately corrupt and criminal underbelly of political and corporatist largess), a heavy-handed, somewhat unnaturally-constructed denouncement of Christian and Islamic fundamentalism. Every page, every paragraph, every sentence is compound, crammed with imagery and thought and emotion. Sometimes liltingly beautiful, yes, but the flow is rough at times, nonetheless. It feels like maybe Morgan spent too much time with this manuscript; adding more and more layers over the top of his narrative, aiming for greater and greater osmosis. But perhaps this effort could have been better put into creating a more focused and naturalistic narrative.
Whatever the faults, whenever our protagonist, Carl Marsalis, is in motion, nothing can tear you away from the page, much like with Morgan's earlier Kovacs novels. Finally, the massive levels of disappointment I once thought overwrought surrounding The Steel Remains - which I still broadly admire, if only for the great potential of its characters and world - begin to seem sensible.
More potent and horrifying in our intrinsic, hypocritical makeup than our fear of the unknown and The Other is our fear of realizing ill truths - about our complicity, about our moral capacity, about our weaknesses; in short, about ourselves. We are rationalizing rather than rational beings, after all.
Never Let Me Go sketches an awfully realistic depiction of our very human capacity for atrocity and self-veiled indifference; our ability to keep the bad things we do out of sight and out of mind. The love triangle nestled amidst all this helps keep the story deceptively calm and banal, provoking a non-aggrandized, truthful hurt when the inevitable loss is suffered.
I've read some criticism that the unwillingness of the protagonists to undermine authority, and challenge their fate, somehow makes them inhuman. Rather, I contend, the author shies away from the fanciful dream-narrative we like to hear to make us feel better. For every protesting, anti-establishment German living during the Nazi regime, there were ten or more who were docile and accepting of the authority foisted upon them. Acceptance of authority is very much a human trait, especially when, by every appearance, resistance is foolhardy and the pull of expectation is unremitting. I do not celebrate this; it simply needs to be accepted.
In the end, this is a remarkable novel, extolling the fragility and priceless nature of all life.