Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. J. M. Rowling.

There were those who went on summer vacation under the redwoods and hid under an electric light hooked to a portable generator for most of the week, until at last they were done with Harry Potter, whereupon they emerged, looking distant and troubled, to don bathing suits and freeze themselves in the river.

There were those who exercised great self-restraint, not buying their Harry Potter until the end of the vacation, when they had exited the campground but had not yet made it home, whereupon they read with all their might (tussling over a shared copy) for two days.

There were those who alienated their friends and spouses by canceling social engagements to stay home and read.

There were those who stole a copy from their children and laid it upon the table in front of them in the office at lunchtime, bending close, with glasses off, and squinting.

And then there was I, who, when I managed to borrow an already much-read copy, some weeks after the release, had trouble summoning the energy to read more than 30 pages at a time.

I think it took me a week to finish the whole thing, and then I kind of wished Harry had just stayed dead at the end so I wouldn't worry about having to read a seven-part series about his children.