A Foreign Anxiety

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Ok...so I'm relatively new to the whole reading thing. I know, I know...sounds wierd. Up until recently I have HATED--and no, I'm not being melo-dramatic--I mean really HATED reading. Perhaps it is because few books can hold a candle to my incredibly overactive and vivid imagination or maybe just because I read incredibly slowly, but nevertheless, there has been a strong distaste, in my life thus far, for these things we call books.

And then something happened...I married the most noble and beautiful woman alive, who happens also to be a lover of a good book. She introduced me to good ole' Aslan and the crew of the Chronicles of Narnia. For the first time in my life, I experienced the feeling of not being able to put a book down. As I read on in the adventures of Pevensie children, I felt as though I were there at Cair Paravel, the Stone table, and Mr. and Mrs. Beaver's home by the river. I thought to myself, "I can't put the book down!! Peter, Susan, Edmond, Lucy--they NEED me!! I cannot abandon them now!" Ha ha ha...it was truly a delight.

Well now as I begin to read more and more (still very slowly, but getting better), I find myself in a foreign anxiety. Last night, for example, as I neared the final pages of Adventures in Missing the Point, I found myself wanting to stop on the page before last. Such a strange feeling to nearly abhor and fear the end of a book. Why could this be? I don't know, but at least it inspires me to start another one!