I have 20 more pages of Zadie Smith on David Foster Wallace before I dive in to finish the series I started when I was thirteen. I reread most of those books over this past January. They held up better than I expected - The Mammoth Hunters is pretty excellent, as is The Valley of Horses - and although things go somewhat downhill as the series goes on (I’m not drawing any DFW parallels here), it is so dear to my heart and stitched into my imagination that I almost didn’t care.
And so here is book six. The last book. When it’s over I will cry because the possibilities are reined in and sealed into place. You shouldn’t be allowed to be this old when you read the last book of a series beloved in your childhood.
Remember that Deathly Hallows feeling? And so with excitement, trepidation, and sadness [I will be lugging around 757 pages of hardcover for the next few days].