Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day established him as a novelist who could fathom the undercurrents of the British heart. His new novel goes deeper: it describes a Britain of the past, still linked to the tradition of knightly valour chronicled by Malory. Significantly, the narrative voice that introduces it by pointing up the contrast with contemporary Britain describes it as “our country”. The narrator, the people of that time and perhaps the reader are “we”. Yet there is disconnection too: our memory is imperfect, as is indicated by the slightly comic – and so deceptive – tone in which some of the exploits are narrated. Indeed, the whole book is about forgetting and remembering: the buried giant is all that has been forgotten, including th