The last page

I’m not sure which part of reading I prefer, the anticipation that comes at the first page of a book, or the satisfaction that hopefully comes at reaching the last page. When I got to the last page of Shadow of the Wind, I wished it would go on for another hundred pages, even though it was a perfectly satisfying and totally appropriate conclusion. Sometimes, when a book draws you into its world, you (or at least I) long to linger a while longer. It seems wrong to close its cover, set it down, and pick up the next one immediately.

In any case, the "to be read" stack is so tall it’s been split in two (to prevent it from crashing down from the night stand and crushing me in my sleep). That, of course, hasn’t stopped me from making more purchases: This weekend three more books arrived, including two by my friend Greg Herren, Murder in the Rue Ursulines and Murder in the Garden District, though before I read those I must pick up the previous books in the series, Murder in the Rue Chartres and Murder in the Rue St. Ann, and make sure I read them in order. I completely forgot that the other book, Best Gay Romance 2010, contains a story by my fellow anthology writer David Puterbaugh. (You know how people get called "one to watch"? He’s one of them.) I’ll get to them in due course, though I still have a stack of books that have been loaned to me that I should read first. Hopefully the next one will leave me as reluctant to reach the end as Shadow of the Wind did.

What was the last book you read that you didn’t want to end?

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