I'm still plugging through Wayne Suttles, Coast Salish Essays. I picked it while looking for books about the native people around Vancouver and Victoria before visiting there. Progress through the book was easy in the flight out there. There wasn't much time available to read it while there. After returning motivation to read it has flagged because it isn't quite as relevant anymore.

So why can't I quit, put it down, leave it alone, move on?

I don't know. Books have this mystical, sacred quality for me. The contents are the work of humans, sure, but there is something about a book--a capital B Book--that feels disrespectful to abandon it without finishing. It's almost like putting up a hand to someone talking to me and asking that person to be quiet. Shhh. I don't have time for what you have to say--moving on.

It's nonsense. I know it. It's obvious. But the feeling--the pressure--to continue is palpable. I've only quit on a handful (not counting books due back to the library and returned, ready or not, read or not). Quitting is a skill I'd like to learn.