A story of reading Never Let Me Go
What We Were Made For
Ishiguro tells you the worst of it almost in passing, and trusts you to keep loving these children anyway. The horror is not the fate; it is the ordinariness of growing up inside it.
This is a placeholder essay so the page reads like the real thing — the novel, the cover, and the shape of the argument are here; S.E. will write the words that go in this space.