I've just finished reading Blood Canticle by Anne Rice.
The Vampire Chronicles, my favourite series of novels, by my favourite author, is over. I've completed the story. The tale of my beloved immortals has come to an end. I'm...sad. I want to say unbearably so, but that would be far too dramatic, wouldn't it? I never wanted it to end.
I've always gotten this way after completing a book, but this time it's deeper. I could feel it coming on whilst reading the second-last book of the series the week before. I'm not sure that I can fully convey what these books have meant to me. Of course they're about vampires; I love vampires, that's what drew me to read them in the first place. But they're so much more. I've never found more perfect descriptions of human emotion. I've always had difficulty in recognizing/experiencing my own emotions; perhaps Rice's writing allowed me to emote vicariously.
Rice's novels are filled with beauty, love letters to the city of New Orleans, to art, music, history, literature, architecture, fashion, culture, flowers...So many of the lovely, interesting thing in this world.
I wonder...where I'm going with this. Gah! Something to do with indecision about whether to read any of her works which came after, if I could stomach the hyper-religiousness of them. But will I ever find another author like her?
I'm certain I'll come back to the ones I have read again and again, regardless.
...I want to be a vampire. Good night.
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