The Deathly Hallows
Because I am immensely boring I will not be attending any midnight releases of the seventh and final volume in the Harry Potter saga. Though part of me would love to put on a big fur coat and fake beard and wig to look like Hagrid, and storm into Barnes and Noble to tower over all of the midget wizards that should be in bed.
The fact that it will be in some peoples hands in less than an hour kills me, because I won’t receive my copy for a few days. We pre-ordered our copy from Amazon long ago and I most likely won’t get it until Monday or Tuesday.
Though it is probably for the best. Teresa will probably stay up all night reading it while I will take my sweet time with it. I will savor it like the last piece of chocolate in an assortment. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be a coconut creme. The New York Times has already released a spoiler-laden review (Even though they did release it a day early much to the chagrin of Ms. Rowling and millions of Potter fans) saying “Ms. Rowling has fitted together the jigsaw-puzzle pieces of this long undertaking with Dickensian ingenuity and ardor.”
I doubt that she would let me down. I expect death and mayhem in this final installment and would not at all be surprised for one of the final chapter’s titles to be “The Boy Who Died.” Harry has brought joy back to reading for so many who had lost it. Call it the rebirth of a trite and faded genre, Harry Potter has made millions locked in an all too often monotonous and cold realism (including me) imagine again.
I look forward to reading and hearing this final installment. If you haven’t had the pleasure of listening to Jim Dale’s superb rendering of these marvelous novels you have missed much. And if any of you dare spoil it for me I may be forced to torture you with the cruciatus curse before I erase my own memory so I can enjoy the conclusion of this fanciful epic as it was intended, with the excitement of a child.
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