I recently finished reading Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro and found it to be both a deeply moving and intellectually stimulating novel. Through the naive and observant gaze of Klara—an Artificial Friend (AF) designed to support children—Ishiguro explores a number of unsettling themes that are all the more powerful for being presented with such simplicity.

The world Klara inhabits is not too far removed from ours: children attend school remotely, socialization is scarce, and society is increasingly stratified by access to advanced technology. By following Klara as she tries to understand and help the sickly teenager Josie, the novel invites us to reflect on what it means to be human in a world shaped by genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, and the human need for meaning.

Gene Editing and the Collapse of Social Mobility

One of the most striking elements of the story is the deep social divide caused by genetic modification. Children are either “Lifted”—a euphemism for being genetically enhanced to boost cognitive performance—or they are not. Josie is lifted; Rick, her closest friend, is not.

The consequences of this binary status are severe. Lifted children have access to better education and future opportunities. In contrast, unmodified children are left with virtually no path to upward mobility. At one point, it’s mentioned that only a single university considers non-lifted candidates—and even then, they accept just 2%. The system is structurally rigged.

What I found particularly interesting is how Ishiguro softens the notion that lifted children are objectively superior. In fact, both Josie and her late sister—who were lifted—suffer from health complications, hinting at unintended consequences of the procedure. Moreover, the supposed cognitive gap between lifted and non-lifted children appears relatively minor. Rick, for instance, is intellectually curious and technically skilled, capable of building drones and keeping up with Josie in complex social games. What truly sets him apart isn’t any lack of intelligence, but his lack of access.

This seems to be Ishiguro’s point: to benefit from an unfair system, you don’t need an actual advantage—just a socially constructed one. The real danger of gene editing in this context is not the enhancement itself, but how it reinforces inequality and erodes any remaining hope for merit-based mobility.

AI and the Temptation of Immortality

Another central theme is the role of artificial intelligence and its potential to serve as a vessel for immortality. As Josie’s illness worsens, her mother entertains the idea of creating an artificial replica of her daughter—using Klara as the base and transferring everything she learns about Josie into a synthetic copy.

This raises deeply uncomfortable questions. What makes someone who they are? Can a machine programmed with memories and behaviors ever truly replace a person?

Interestingly, it’s Josie’s father—arguably the more technically literate character—who is most skeptical of the plan. He acknowledges that he might be able to rationally accept a copy of Josie, but doubts that anyone, especially the mother, would emotionally be able to do the same. There’s a tension here between rationality and emotional truth—just because something is technically possible doesn’t mean it is ethically or psychologically acceptable.

Klara’s willingness to sacrifice herself in this plan adds another layer. She does not question whether it is right or wrong—only whether it will help Josie. It’s a haunting depiction of the utilitarian logic that might one day guide human-AI interactions.

Belief, Religion, and the Limits of Understanding

Finally, the novel touches on the human (and artificial) need for belief. Klara develops a form of solar worship, convinced that the sun—her source of energy—also has healing powers that might save Josie. She prays to it, negotiates with it, and performs rituals in its honor.

From a rational perspective, this seems absurd. But for Klara, it provides a sense of agency and purpose. By attributing meaning to her observations—such as a homeless man “resurrected” after a night in the cold—she creates a framework to make sense of the world and her place in it.

What struck me here is how closely this mirrors the origins of human religious belief. Faced with incomplete information and emotional uncertainty, both Klara and humans construct narratives that provide comfort and direction. In Klara’s case, her limited understanding of natural phenomena leads to conclusions that are logically flawed but emotionally coherent.

There’s also an ironic reversal: we often think of AI as hyper-rational and data-driven, yet Klara behaves more like a spiritually curious child. In reality, as AI grows more powerful, it will not learn about the world through naive sensory experience as Klara does—but through access to global information. Its limitations will be shaped not by observation, but by the biases we’ve embedded in the data we feed it.

Still, the ambiguity remains. Josie does recover, and Klara believes it’s because of the sun. Was she right all along? Or was it just coincidence—another case of belief reinforced by luck?

Klara and the Sun raises complex questions about where our society might be headed. Through its quiet narrative and gentle pacing, it encourages us to think critically about the consequences of our technological ambitions—and reminds us that behind every innovation lies a set of values and choices we can’t afford to ignore.