Todo Tiene Su Como-Se-Llama

"A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love."

-- A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act I, Sc. ii

Well, I just finished The Sorrows of Young Werther in-between two of today's finals, and . . .

Oh, brother!

Sappiest. Book. Ever.

I groaned louder and cringed more visibly as I got closer and closer to the end. Reading a bit aloud to Moore and Wilson improved things a bit, but then I was once again reading alone. It made me want to sick up.

I thought I was into the movement. I thought I was a Romantic. But this . . . this was thick and heavy and sticky and saccharine. It was melodramatic and self-centered. It was idealistic and impractical. It was overenthusiastic and far, far too passionate. If everyone in the world were a Werther, everyone in the world would be a dead Werther.

Does that mean that I don't get to be a Romantic? Can you be a conditional Romantic? How about a cynical Romantic? A Romantic Cynic?

Hmmm . . . I like this idea. We'll call it Cynimanticism. Any takers?

Frigging Goethe . . . Maybe I should stick with the British Romantics. Come to think of it, I'm not really a big Wordsworth/Keats fan, either. And Shelley is just "alright." That leaves Coleridge and *angelic choir voices* Lord Byron . . . but I'd still rather read Wilde and the others who came after him. And don't get me started on those bloody Americans . . .

Romanticism! Bah! Ick!

Grrr.

Posted by Jared at December 14, 2004 02:55 PM | TrackBack