Searching for symbolism is mental masturbation. I don't like dissection. I wasn't a good English major. If feeling is first, why hunt for deeper meaning?

So I didn't lug anthologies. Or read Jane Austen. I still don't like Hemingway.

And I give up, often. Fifty pages, 100 pages. I try to be a good literary citizen. The other day I picked up a "classic" and slogged against heavy lids, inner chatter, and the call of something better. And finally gave up.

I don't want to argue intent, conceit, or what's at stake. I just want out.

And you, my confessor, reader, friend — are you a quitter too?