Folkloric

I know I'm behind the times a bit with this, but I just finished reading Never Let Me Go, but Kazuo Ishiguro.
I'd held off reading it because I thought it would be too depressing, but now I'm glad I finally read it, though it was indeed sad.

This metaphor might be a bit silly, but it was something I kept coming back to as I read; I found my experience of the book to be like gazing intently at the body of a dead sparrow, or other small bird.

It's saddening, horrific even, and your first impulse is to turn away from it.
But you look closer, perhaps out of a macabre interest, and you notice the delicacy of the little beak, the fine pattern of the feathers, and the fragility of the tiny feet.
And though it's hard to gaze upon, you recognize a kind of beauty in these exquisite details and find that you cannot look away.

It's been a long while since a book has moved me like this one did.