"Do you know where the red fern grows?"
Two seemingly similar questions, but they're really vastly different. One deals with the end result, while the other is concerned with the entire experience.
Becuase, "do you know where the red fern grows?" is not just about where it grows. That question encompasses so much more. It's asking, "Do you remember when Billy saved up for those two little pups? Do you remember when Old Dan got stuck in the tree and Billy had such a time getting him down? Were you just a little bit proud watching Billy fill the side of the shed with coon skins? Did your heart race as you watched Billy desperately try to save Anne from the freezing water that one winter night. And the did you cry? Did you weep? Did you leave just a little piece of your heart there where the red fern grows?"
Reading isn't about the last page, or the first page, or the 22nd page. It's about every page.
It isn't a puzzle that you glean satisfaction from finishing, and then put aside because it has nothing else to offer.
It is more like a painting that you stare at for hours--every now and then noticing some new detail that you didn't realize was there just a moment before.
A good book should not look like a strait line with a uniform beginning, middle, and end. It should, of course, have some center--a cohesive track that holds everything together--but it should branch out from that and give the reader boundless depths to explore.
Because, if it does, then people end up asking not, "Do you know how Where the Red Fern Grows ended?" but rather,
"Do you know where the red fern grows?"
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