Confessions of a Former English Major

There are a few books, canonical, that I have never managed to read or complete reading.
Wuthering Heights. I did not give a rip about Heathcliff and Catherine’s relationship and the tumultuous moors, which symbolized their torrid attempts at love. Much more compelling was Jane Eyre’s heady, nuance-driven passion toward Mr. Rochester.

The Iliad and the Odyssey. Or Homer’s Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee of Greek literature, given far too much credence as god-like renderings of a mythological war, and the stupid decisions that ensued after a hothead got the hots for a woman whose face could launch a thousand ships, supposedly. What the Iliad has given birth to is one very useful adage. Don’t look a gifthorse in the mouth. Thank you, Homer, exit stage right.

For years, I beat myself up for not loving the classics; I believed there must be a deficit in me that I should be far more moved by the contemporary than the antiquated. Then, I realized that there is a system in place that is responsible for this complex I carried. It's the same system that dictates to me what beauty is by way of magazine ads and billboards.

Okay, so now I proudly say that I despise the Romantic Period of lit and poetry. Screw Keats, Shelly, and that other guy, too. No, I don’t like Wordsworth and Longfellow—and all that pastoral imagery that makes me want to run for the hills. I can tolerate Tennyson, whose "Lady of Shallott" is a timeless masterpiece, intricately and intimately detailing the isolation of the feminine psyche. Masterfully crafted phrases. Stunningly deft and piercing language. I don’t even care that it rhymes. It’s genius.

And before you think otherwise, let me disavow you of the belief that I am simply despising form for the sake of doing so. Ezra Pound drives me insane—a textbook case of the “Emporer’s New Clothes” alive and well. I challenge anyone to show me a Pound poem that isn’t utter inanity. I shouldn’t be too judgmental. I guess it’s the equivalent of a single dot of paint on a canvas that goes for millions, and has to be roped off in prestigious museum. Ah, yes, I guess I’m missing the point. No pun intended.