On Not Finishing A Book Because You Love It
I love books. I don’t always love reading, but I always love books. Especially during a time when the best thing for our own health and the health of others is to stay home, books give you the chance to go anywhere, experience anything, be anyone. They can make you laugh, they can make you cry, and if you put the right ones on your coffee table or behind you in a Zoom meeting, they can make you look very smart and pretentious (I’m looking at you “Infinite Jest”).
I have a special place in my heart for long books…and I’m talking realllly long books. Thousand-page fantasy novels, gargantuan sci-fi tomes, sprawling westerns. I don’t love the length of these books because I’m smart (obviously a smart person wouldn’t name their substack Will’s Dumb Brain) or because I’m a particularly fast reader. No, I love long books because one of my favorite feelings is cracking open a new book and realizing in the first fifty or so pages: holy shit…I love this.
The only thing better than realizing you might be reading a new favorite book, is realizing that you’re only five percent of the way through it. There’s truly nothing like sitting down outside on a warm afternoon (if you or your parents have a hammock in the yard, even better) and reading for a few hours, getting absolutely lost in the world, only to notice you have four hundred glorious pages left to enjoy.
When I’m in the midst of a book I’m thoroughly enjoying, I find myself slowing down as I go. After voraciously consuming the first half, I’ll notice that I’m less and less eager to dive back into whatever I’m reading. The stretches where I look at the book but instead reach for my computer or my phone increase in length. I’ll read smaller and smaller chunks as I approach the ending.
All of this is to say, finishing a book you love can feel like a small tragedy. All the places you’ve enjoyed inhabiting, all the people you’ve enjoyed conversing with, all the events you’ve enjoyed watching transpire, they all disappear once you read that final sentence. Of course, nothing lasts forever and some of my favorite books have sequels or prequels but you never know if another book will be able to capture the same magic.
Personally, I’m not one to reread books. I know many of you have favorite books that you return to every couple of years, sometimes more often than that. But for me, I crave new. I want to find the next book that I’ll portion and ration and mourn the coming ending of. I’m not sure how many people share this sentiment. I might be in the minority here because I know lots of folks reach that point of critical mass with a book they love where the only option is sprint to the end to find out what happens.
All I know is that I treat the end of a book like a tube of toothpaste, forever rolling and squeezing and trying to get just a little more magic out of it before I put it on the shelf.
So, what about you? Are you more of a sprint to the end or delay as long as possible person?
I recently read “News of the World” on my Kindle. Like you, I slow down to enjoy the final chapters. As I sat down to read further before going to bed the other night I saw that the book was only 75% completed and I was anticipating some juicy new adventures. As I started the chapter I realized that the author was wrapping up the story - the final 20% of the “book” was the first chapter of another book by that author. I went to bed pissed and wanting to hold a bound book again.
I’m adding this essay to my list of favorites. And while it’s way too short to be considered a book, it was still a delightful travel sized tube...(let?) of toothpaste. Sometimes I sprint, sometimes I slow down, depends on what kind of book it is, but yes, I’m often very sad at the end. Sad and grateful. Thanks for a lovely reminder of that feeling.