chord, struck, and art, a book, a series of books, read as a whole, as one continuous novel, reading about 7 years in the lives of children, of one in particular, and his growth, his development. reading thousands of pages of their adventures, of their tribulations, of their adolescence. 17 years to create, a reader, a child, growing up, the first novel under the Christmas tree, and 17 years later, maybe 27, maybe the same age as Harry was in the beginning, and followed, faithfully, throughout. but that wouldn't be the same, would it, than reading all 7, imagining all 7 years, reading and watching, and eventually caring, maybe a little too much, about characters, hoping for the best, knowing the worst, all the pain and loss and suffering, the unhappiness. but I struggle to find what chord it struck, and I think about Harry finding about something larger than himself, being part of a greater good. I think of the innocence of first loves, of those pangs, those trials and tribulations and drama, the rooting of the underdog. maybe it was the resignation of fate, the giving up of self, the denial of pleasure, the martyrdom, the savior, the needs of many outweigh the few. the darkness maybe, the turn, to fight against wrongs, to take a stand. And maybe redemption, that it was all worth something in the end, maybe just being a better person, a more human person, with flaws. or maybe I just want to be a wizard. either way, it's left me melancholy and pensive. commutes to and from work are slow, and I notice how quiet things are, sometimes anyway, the feel of wind, the consistent pumping of the legs. maybe that's what I'm getting out of it, the mortality, the acceptance of death, the understanding of that part of the cycle. and at such a young age for the character. or maybe a character much too old for his age, a wisdom beyond his years but still a teenager in many ways. i don't know exactly, it's probably all of it, but it's sitting with me, i wouldn't say well, because it isn't the buoyancy of happiness, nor the sadness of despair, but rather contemplation of the human condition.