Literary Confession: Discarded

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? 

Comments

[Missi Baker]

Yes! Decades passed—as student and teacher—before I let go of long, impenetrable classics in prose and poetry, and agreed with Cummings and yelled, “‘weeeee’!” The “feeling first”—the “aha” take my breath away lump in the throat ache in the heart way with words—is what drew me in even as a child and continues to do so through the years.

[Drew]

Missi,
That's it -- exactly. The lump and ache, how I love it.

Thanks for chiming in!

[Hallie]

Yes! I definitely relate to this with trying to appreciate what it considered “literary.” Unfortunately, once I get about two chapters into a book
I feel compelled to finish it no matter how horrible it is.

[Drew]

Ohh Hallie, bless your perseverance! Life is short, ditch the bad books. :)