The emptiness at the end of a page
In the wake of the words
Languages often have words for emotions so specific they seem universal, yet German—a language famed for words like Backpfeifengesicht (an adjective used to describe a face begging to be slapped) and Fernweh (a longing for far-off places)—lacks a word for the emptiness one feels at the end of a good book
I’ve heard people use terms like “book hangover” but that feels off. A hangover is piercingly painful; book grief is tender, bittersweet, and quietly devastating. The end of a good book leaves you bereft and lonely, like a good friend moved to a different continent with a piece of your heart.
It’s not like when you come to the last episode of a TV show because when you read, you’re actively co-creating the world in your mind along with the author. The characters, settings, and emotions are extensions of your imagination. While movies and TV shows evoke powerful, visceral emotions, the experience is shared with the creator’s vision.
Book grief feels more lonely than movie/TV show grief. Maybe it’s because reading a book is a more intimate experience while watching a show can be a communal activity. It is also rare for me to come to the end of a show and really feel the grief of its ending because a lot of TV shows either overstay their welcome or get cancelled or find a way to never get to an ending or sometimes take so long that the emotion no longer wells up.
Like with most things, we’ve figured out a way to distract ourselves from this book grief. The Internet has made it easier to be a fan now than it has ever been in human history. When I finish a book, I know I can ease my book mourning by going to my reddit tribe. Fanfiction, fan art, and community discussions make sure that I can live on in the Bookverse even if I’ve thoroughly explored the creator’s version. In fact, the enthusiasm and creativity of fans often feel like an evolution of the story, adding new hues to a world that sometimes surpass the creator’s own imagination.
I’m not too convinced that our coping mechanism is actually useful. After all, did you read a book if you didn’t digest it and sit with it? Books often confront us with powerful ideas, emotions, and challenges. Mourning allows you to sit with those lessons and feelings, giving you space to absorb what you’ve learned and grow as a result.
I came to the end of Wind and Truth, Stormlight Archive #5, on Sunday and I’m still struggling with the ending of my time with it. WaT was an incredibly absorbing read; I read it at every moment I could get away with and was deeply immersed in the world. Of course, this could also be because I’ve spent the last 4 odd months rereading Cosmere books in preparation for this book (A rough estimate puts me at 13 books and counting). But I think it’s actually Brandon’s incredible imagination that has actually captivated mine so much so that I sign up for every 10k as Dalinar (and got jacked by KTM and Phonepe Midnight marathon; they printed my name onto the bib) just so that I can say “The most important step this woman can take is the next one” at the finish line.
Even as book grieving periods go, this one is especially hard for me to take. Wind and Truth felt like a teacher, a companion, and a friend — a world I inhabited fully. One does not want to let go because letting go is pretending as though it did not change me. But isn’t that why we read in the first place? To be undone, reshaped, and violently changed by some words?