The Last Page.
Ten copies of my favorite novel will sit patiently on my bookshelf, waiting to be cast off onto the next (un/fortunate) fiction guru, before actually lending my original read, for fear that the novel will be returned in the same condition I (willingly) afford my own literary journeys. To read is to devour both the characters and pages simultaneously, with residue of rushed morning coffee breaks and crowded (shoulder-to-shoulder) subway rides smeared on the indents of seemingly irrelevant chapters, where life lived in real-time overlaps with hours passed in imaginary time, and both heroes and heroins continue down their (fictional and non-) paths of self-discovery. Enjoy!
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I could barely make it through that essay-maybe as boring as the 'fabulous' book I'm struggling with/through now, Stephen King's "Bag of Bones." Highly recommended, I promise you. When I begin to skim, it's a red flag that very likely I will read the last few pages and call it a day.
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