Drowning or waving...

I've just finished the final Harry Potter book. I started crying on page 484, read until the mid-500s, went to volunteer at the Shakespeare festival, got home around 4, and cried until the end. Since I picked up my copy around 10 yesterday morning, not too shabby.

I was pleased with the way the series turned out. I'm not as big a fan of these books as many people are, but I do enjoy immersing myself in them, and I think my enjoyment always ultimately comes down to what a masterful, careful, and seamless storyteller J. K. Rowling is. These books are so phenomenally popular, and the magical world of them is so absorbing, that I think the sheer writing talent J. K. Rowling has is often overlooked--especially given the semi-mythological story about how she conceived of the central conceit of the series. The idea of thinking of something on a train belies the effort that must go into the writing of these books. Everything about them, every detail, has been placed there with such obvious care, and yet that care is invisible, unforced. I guess it stands to reason--you don't become one of the best-selling writers of all time with mediocrity. And I guess my appreciation for it is kind of bizarre, I mean, I like the stories--they're imaginative and touching and funny and classic without being trite--but my love for these books really comes down to craft.

And now, with apologies to Witold Rybczynski, Dave Eggers, and Alberto Manguel, I shall return to my normal reading activities. And also, possibly, watch Veronica Mars. And eat some dinner--a strange new spicy dish I just invented, made with red wine, shrimp, and chili sauce. Laundry has fallen by the weekend-scheduling wayside, though. So it goes. It's the books' world--I just live in it.