When I come close to the end of a book I like, I slow down. I pay more attention to every single word. I put the book aside more often. I even invent things to do. The more pressing they are, the better. In short, I behave like any old fool. But chiding myself for my reading habits will not do. It will have no effect whatsoever, that is. I will keep postponing the end of a good read as long as I possibly can. And by the most obvious ruses at my disposal. As is this pitiful attempt at poking fun at myself. In writing, no less.