"Nothing. Not a single word."

Finishing a great novel is one of those voluminous experiences; your heart races as the pages thin, you struggle to move your eyes faster, to soak it all up more quickly. It’s the final lap, and the object is to finish without a drop of energy left. When the last page nears, the temptation to skip sentences, paragraphs, entire pages, pulls like some watery undertow. The final page comes in a rush, the last words arrive like a trampling stampede, there and gone before you can comprehend what’s happened. Unlike the end of a movie or a television series, novel time is fluid; you can repeat sentences, skip around on the page. So maybe you read the last line several times, or read it first and then go back and read the paragraph leading up to it. But at some point it hits you: This thing you’ve lived with for a day, a week, a month—these people and places and words you’ve submitted yourself to—they’re over. There’s nothing left to tell.

The feeling is one of elation, confusion, accomplishment, sadness, restlessness, all whirling and ready to burst outward. Sometimes it’s a relief. A battle won well, or at least finished with your life intact. Be proud you did it. Look what it's made you. Other times it’s like making the last check over the vacation home, looking for lost items, making the beds, packing bags and walking out the door, casting glances back at the place you wished you could stay forever. Back to the real world; this place is not for you anymore.