Kazuo Ishiguro, Klara and the sun
The Before and After of Artificial Intelligence
Klara and the Sun (Einaudi, translated by Susanna Basso), the latest work by 2017 Nobel laureate Kazuo Ishiguro, has a curious quality: it is a chameleon of a book, perceived differently depending on the year in which it is read. Those who encountered it upon its release in 2021 likely saw it as a science fiction novel, even though it is set in a near-future not far from our own. In this world, the great affliction of modern society is adolescent loneliness, with young people increasingly struggling with human interaction and the ability to express their feelings. Enter the AFs—Artificial Friends—androids like Klara, the narrative voice, programmed to provide the warmth and empathy that seem almost entirely absent from the relationships of these young people.
Those who read it even just a couple of years ago, however, may have seen it as a disturbing mirror of our times, a reality in which we rely on machines for everything, even for the affection and understanding that should form the foundation of communal life. What changed in this short span of time? The rise of artificial intelligence. It’s not that AI wasn’t present at the time of Ishiguro’s publication, but its impact on public debate and daily life—at least in our perception—was far less pronounced than it is today.
Yet both interpretations—that it is a mere dystopian novel or that it is alarmingly contemporary—are limited and do not do justice to the depth of the work. Ishiguro does not aim to deliver social critique or warnings. By entrusting the narration to Klara, the humanoid robot, an ingenuous, tender, and disarming voice, he invites readers to see things from a different perspective. The novel is full of apparent contradictions. It is paradoxical that, for survival, the Artificial Friends need the most natural thing of all: the sun; that the shop owner, where Klara waits patiently to be chosen, seeks to protect her feelings by warning her of the emotional unreliability of children; and that while androids are programmed to love, this means they love for life—even when they are no longer needed—while humans love spontaneously, and their feelings change just as spontaneously. Suddenly, the roles are reversed: who behaves more like one would expect a human to? Who is the real machine?
It is undeniable that in our reality there is a growing impoverishment of human relationships, especially among young people born in the era of the internet and social media, who have matured amid a global pandemic and must navigate constantly evolving, lightly regulated, and unpredictable technologies. Yet it is also true that these technologies are not inherently evil, and that it is still us who exploit them for personal gain, just as Josie uses Klara—not with ill intent, but because, in her eyes, she has always remained a machine.
In light of these reflections, the question Ishiguro seems to pose is not so much whether a machine can experience love, but whether we can love a machine. In the novel, Klara is not loved with the same intensity that she loves, but in reality, in our world, this humanoid robot may well enter our hearts—and never leave.