Sp that's that

Finished the final Harry Potter last night, after crying three times while reading it, and laughing out loud so much that it drove Mike out of the lounge to his bedroom. Strangely anticlimactic yet simultaneously satisfying; crying out for a good editor; expository dialogue; scenes that dragged on way too long. And yet... Rowling captures something - that time in adolescence when hope hasn't turned into idealism, when you're still innocent but no longer naive - she catches it and runs with it, so that the books sometimes startle and delight, whether it be with the death of a much-loved character, driven home with cruelly economical use of words; or an unexpected moment of trancendent joy that feels utterly, perfectly right. *sigh*