Just a quick note: I just finished The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell. This is not a review of the book, as I am not articulated enough to write what I feel about it. However, if you are looking for a review, I will recommend one from The NewYorker. It mirrors what I feel (although it hardly matters what I think about this novel).
What I want to write about is that dreadful feeling after I have finished reading a book, particularly a fat one, like this novel. It does feel like a bad hangover, after pints and pints and pints of beer. And cigarettes. It was nice at the pub, but when you woke up on your bed, your head wanted to explode. It is a bit similar with reading a novel, I found. The journey from page 1 to page end is (was) exciting, but after I closed the back cover, I felt something was lost. Luckily, I don't have a severe headache after I finish reading. But, there's that similar feeling of emptiness.
I don't actually know why I often, if not all the time, feel like this. I guess I subconsciously created some sort of attachment with the story, characters and the process of reading when I started. And when the book ends, the attachment is severed. And maybe, that's why I feel a bit lost and empty. After all, reading means you are investing your time and mind in one particular thing for a certain period of time.
To end this short ramble, I will recommend this book, because regardless of what the review says (see above), David Mitchell is still an amazing storyteller.