2003-01-15 - 3:44 a.m.

I love and loathe the heavy emotional drain of finishing a good book--knowing there�s not much more left--picking it up later on and going on one last drive--knowing its kill or be killed. No remainders.

The giddy rush and the pain--knowing you will soon no longer be a part of a world you�ve come to accept and briefly inhabit.

The last page and you see it coming, and you slow...down...slow...is that all there is? Can�t we give it one more try, baby?

I have good memories of finishing good books. I can�t really help the surroundings too much, I orchestrate when I can, but hey, they finish when they�re ready to be finished (I once tried to finish Microserfs on the B-Line home, where I had done most of the readin�, but still had ten pages that I didn�t wanna hurry. I ended up finishin� under Marty�s--the Comm and Harvard packie--dim lights, and me lookin� like I was trying to look like some frat boy entertainin� bohemian dreams for just one night).

This one, The Corrections, was a pretty frickin� good book, and I finished it at home on a good maybe I should save the rest for tomorrow, but, yeah, fuck it drive, and rewarded myself with my customary head down, forehead resting in elbow-pit anti-touchdown dance.

OK--I�ve had enough for one day--definitely time for me to go to bed.

OK--so I miss the book now.