The only thing more depressing than this lamentable series is the realization that it is ending. Like the vague pain of an untreated toothache, Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events had come to be a familiar part of our daily existence. We had even grown to relish the discomforts of the Baudelaire orphans as they coped, often inadequately, with the devious machinations of Count Olaf. It is true that we should have been better prepared for the series' terminus: The author himself had suggested repeatedly that we seek more pleasurable avenues of reading. But no, we plodded on, soaking up the sorrow and pity of the series like large, sodden sponges. And now it is over. What other misery can life offer?