the endings of great novels stay with you. a momentous rush that last dot, words and eyes speeding towards it almost with reluctance, until yes that world is done but something ripples out, a faint radiance or shadow, like the dark spot that lingers in your eye long after staring at the sun.
this i felt reading:
—portrait of a lady by henry james
—swann’s way by proust
—the red and the black by stendhal
—ulysses by joyce
—the sun also rises by hemingway
