I always feel sad when I come to the end of a book.

Claire Tomalin, biographer of poets and teller of human lives, once confessed with gentle sorrow: “I always feel sad when I come to the end of a book.” In this simple admission lies a truth that reaches far beyond reading. For the end of a book is not merely the turning of a final page—it is the closing of a world, the farewell to voices and companions who have traveled with us through hours of intimacy. The sadness comes not from ink or paper, but from the loss of something living, for stories live in us as truly as people do, and parting from them feels like parting from friends.

The origin of such a feeling lies deep in the soul’s bond with stories. Since the days when firelight flickered on cave walls and elders spoke of gods and heroes, humankind has known that stories are more than entertainment—they are a mirror of existence, a rehearsal of our own joys and sorrows. To finish a story is to stand at the edge of life itself, reminded that all things, even the sweetest, must end. Tomalin’s sadness is thus the sadness of mortality made gentle: the recognition that everything we love in this world, like a book, must one day close.

Consider the tale of Don Quixote, who, when his adventures were ended, lay down his arms and surrendered to death. Cervantes himself, in closing the book, mourned his hero as though he were real—for he had become real in the hearts of readers. When we come to the last chapter, whether of Quixote or any tale, we too feel that grief: the quenching of a light that once shone brightly in the imagination. Tomalin’s words echo this universal ache—the reluctance to leave behind a world that has become part of our own.

History gives us another glimpse in the life of Charles Dickens, whose serialized novels drew readers into long journeys with beloved characters. When The Old Curiosity Shop neared its end, crowds in New York rushed to the docks, calling out to arriving ships to know whether Little Nell had died. And when she did, the sorrow was real, as though a neighbor had passed. This is the power of a book: it awakens love and grief alike. Tomalin’s sadness is not hers alone, but the cry of all readers who have tasted this bittersweet farewell.

The deeper meaning of her confession is that to feel sorrow at the end of a book is to prove that one has lived fully within it. The sadness testifies to the depth of our immersion, to the bonds we have formed, to the truths we have encountered. To finish with indifference is to have never truly entered the story. But to finish with tears or longing is to know that one’s spirit has been expanded, enriched, and changed forever. Thus her sadness is not weakness, but a mark of the story’s triumph.

The lesson, O children of tomorrow, is this: welcome the sadness of endings, for it is the sign that you have loved, that you have grown, that you have dwelt in a world beyond your own. Do not seek only endless beginnings; honor the closings, too, for they prepare the soul for the many farewells of life itself. Just as finishing a book leaves us longing, so too will life’s sweetest chapters end, and we must learn to carry their light within us.

Practical wisdom follows: when you close a book and feel sorrow, pause and let gratitude mingle with your grief. Recall what you have learned, whom you have met, and how your soul has changed. Carry those treasures forward, and then—begin again. For the end of one book is the doorway to another, just as the end of one season in life opens into the next. Do not fear endings, but let them teach you how to love beginnings more deeply.

Thus Claire Tomalin’s words stand not merely as a reader’s lament, but as an eternal reflection: “I always feel sad when I come to the end of a book.” They remind us that endings are woven into the fabric of joy, that sadness is the proof of love, and that the greatest wisdom lies not in avoiding the sorrow of farewells, but in embracing them as the price of having lived fully in a story worth remembering.