I assume like
most bibliophiles, there are a few authors that touch that nerve of
pure enjoyment and satisfaction inside. Their stories fill me with
an inner sense of delight at the places, characters, and emotions
described, and leave me feeling a little high upon completion—wanting
more but wonderfully gratified with what I have. And completion is,
unfortunately, a necessity. While we may like to be forever in those
places and among those characters, the last page inevitably turns.
And for authors who have passed, so too do oeuvres have a last page;
at some point in time I will have read everything by an author and
face the reality of not being able to embark on any virgin
experience.
And thus it
is with a few authors I have patiently let their final unread book
sit on the shelf for years, waiting for the moment that feels right
to enter upon that last bit of glory. With Iain Banks’ The
Hydrogen Sonata (2012) a couple
of weeks ago the moment felt right. And so, with mixed feelings, I
dived in for my last, virgin experience in the Culture. I have
emerged upon the last page to confirm delayed gratification is a real
thing.