I got here sooner than I thought, or hoped -- that delicate place where you don't know quite how to end it. At Swim, Two Boys.
Reviewers often comment on the weight of it, the epic-ness of it, how many pages it is (nearly 600). Hearing this, I had hoped it might take me a few weeks to read it, but it did not oblige. And despite being busier than I think I've ever been, I find myself, a week after starting it, less than 100 pages to the end.
Already, I feel myself coming undone. The sadness is beginning to settle in, the knowledge that I won't feel this way again for a long time. Years, perhaps.
There are dozens of books queued up behind At Swim, books I'm sure I'd have loved if I'd happened upon them earlier. But now? Now, I can't even think about them. Now, I'm in that delicious, tiresome place where you don't have the heart to go on, can't help but go on, knowing full well you'll find yourself unmoored when it's through.
I think I'll finish it tonight. And tomorrow is Friday. After my exam in Medicine Administration I'll be free to come home and sit in the dark and indulge the melancholy that's coming. What cheer.
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