After "The End"

There is still so much more to be read, simmering and sparking in memory and remembering.

That is: if it's a great book, the kind that rides on original language, suspending me in the not-here world of imagination, often more real than the tangible world of here.

Like a leaf, dying but burning still.

Like Colum McCann's TransAtlantic:

"Down below, a sheep with a magpie sitting on its back. The sheep raises its head and begins to run when the plane swoops, and for just a moment the magpie stays in place on the sheep's back: it is something so odd Brown knows he will remember it forever.

"The miracle of the actual."

I have turned the last page.

But this is a book so miraculous that I know I will remember it forever.