Whenever I read a book, especially a really long one, I find myself completely absorbed and engaged. The world around me fades away, and all that exists are the words on the page. Occasionally I'll emerge, aware of the people talking around me, but my mind still occupied with the events of that faraway world that only exists in my--and the author's--imagination. But always I'll return, and read late into the night--repeating the mantra "just one more chapter" until my eyelids refuse to stay open. Nothing can take me away from my goal. I must finish. I must find out what happens. And eventually, I'll reach the final page, where the words don't reach the bottom and the blank space takes me by surprise. And I finally emerge, bleary-eyed, and look up at the world around me with a listless feeling. What now? I wonder. The next day, at my usual reading time, I sit down on the couch, ready to reach towards the coffee table to pick up what has been my most recent companion for the last week, only to remember that there's no more to read. It is finished.
For awhile, I'm not ready to start the next one, as the after-images of the last novel are still fading around me. The mystery and wonder of whatever world the author created has left an imprint on my mind, and I'm not yet ready to move on to a new place.
But eventually, the urge will come again. Something must be read. And a return to the library begins the process anew.
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