There before. And there after.

One begins to read. You turn the pages. At first there that vague feeling, hardly noticeable. Continues to be read. And the feeling is slowly taking shape, it becomes clearer and it grows. Until you realize the true nature of this impression: they crowd one of the peaks of human literature. And that is certainty. This is a masterpiece! It is now relishing every word, every life lesson, each idea. However, the pages that also rotates slowly as possible, bereavement gradually settles. The closer we get to the last page, we know more than ever that experience does represent us. Then came the break of the end. One enters death with open eyes. It is all very feverishly seeking a similar inner experience, we know that the peak is now behind. In hope, we try other Yourcenar. No. Attempts Proulx, Hesse, Camus. Always in vain. Then we begin to envy those who have not read, because we know how great will be the discovery. We jealous potential innocence.

So it is of Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar.

There before. And there after.

May this be the last book you read as the following remain unfinished.