One sign of a good novel has to be the uncomfortable sensation that occasionally develops as the reader comes to the sad realization that the number of pages remaining is very limited. There will not be enough time or space to allow sufficient re-entry into the world beyond the novel. Your submersion may have been deep, your devotion total.
I’m just now recovering from such a bout of literary separartion anxiety, brought about by my finishing Cintra Wilson’s extraordinary Colors Insulting To Nature, the June selection of The Artist’s Bookshelf. Ms. Wilson so totally and explicitly captures the world of her protagonist Liza, that I just wasn’t ready to let her (and it) go.
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