I got this through my university inter-library loan and read it during a trip down to Los Angeles to visit with my mother. I had no idea what it was going to be about. It is a tri-cross between a cloning novel (Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro is now the reference novel, even though it came out 3-4 years after Nekropolis) and a novel about grinding life in poverty (my list of novels about poverty) and a novel about the human condition (as Lucky Dube put it, we are born to suffer). In the end, where Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is grim, grim, grim, Nekropolis is almost unendurably sad, sad, sad. Great reviews over at Goodreads.
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