When I started re-reading Harry, it was just to have a small window of solitude after a long day of being mommy to our twins, being executive assistant at work, the wears-every-hat gal in general. I relished each night when the twins would go to bed and I could finally read the coveted one chapter I'd set limit to. I was infatuated with Harry and his magical world. Mysteries are my mainstay with books, so thoroughly enjoying a fantasy was especially rare for me. I came into Harry late in his life; I didn't discover him until year four, the Goblet of Fire, was just about to be released. I only learned of Harry because I worked at the library, and couldn't help but wonder why his books were on waiting lists that lasted weeks. I dived into the books, but my infatuation stopped there. Harry's world was vivid in my imagination and the movies ruined my carefully detailed storyboard. I stopped watching them after the Prisoner of Azkaban.
I've only read the Deathly Hallows once, at its first printing. I remembered feeling as though Harry's nomadic wanderings would never end, and didn't originally enjoy how the loose ends were tied up. This time, intent on taking my time, I read the books more carefully. Yet by Order of the Phoenix, I was immersed and had the hardest time putting Harry down. I spent any possible moment trying to squeeze in a few pages to finish the story, as Deathly Hallows was much better the second time around. Last night I finished the seventh and final year, and although triumphant in how Harry's story ended this time, I was saddened that my nightly ritual was up. I know I will still spend that time reading, but I will miss Harry. He quiesced my restless relentless pace during a time when calamity abounded.
No comments:
Post a Comment