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Ah, repression. It is the basis for so many literary novels and every once in awhile is enough to drive me to emotional resignation (but more often somnolence). This novel, however, does a superb job at being a page-turner and a depressing book at the same time. I was sad, but I was compelled to keep reading. The narrative carried elements that could have easily transformed it into a horror story, but the tenderness within those pages veiled the impending terror. The story seems very, most meticulously constructed, as though the author was handcrafting a Victorian dollhouse with words. Indeed, Kathy's world is enriched with feelings I know and personalities I've met described in a way I've never been able to. It is altogether a simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar territory. Nothing about what I was reading seemed modern aside for the gradual "surprise" and the fact that there were cars. Hailsham could easily translate to an undated English boarding school and the abundance of old house names and suffixes (cottages, mansions, estates, -shire, -field, -folk, -ington) only added to its datelessness. And yes, I do realize this is a work of British literature, which is partly to blame. The voice is gentle and earnest (a welcome surprise), and that is perhaps the type of voice most appropriate for facing the inevitable end... it is a voice much more suitable than one of anguish and regret and all the more unforgettable.