I am looking forward to British Literature II. There are plenty of great American authors but the British just have so much more delightful weirdness. Wuthering Heights is much weirder, for example, than Little Women. Alcott's story is about a family and a young woman in that family becoming a writer. Bronte's has ghosts, delusions, reincarnation--and it's not even strictly gothic or romantic. And there's so much in British Literature of the time the playfully bucks expectations of genre. I'm reminded of how Peter Straub once described Jane Eyre as a great horror novel.
Twitter Sonnet #451
Softened injustice stymies for some time.
Broiled police absorb all the basil.
Mushroom clouds conceal nuclear mime.
Nose motions gone through are sharply nasal.
Blue vomit streams along the carbon barre.
Elongated toes pinion slats of wheat.
Weary Willie clouds took drops just so far.
Ice eggs give nuclei an inverse heat.
Toady ploughs affirm the successful grain.
Skies shot by crazy ships know what's real now.
Violet eyes swing at the tips of the mane.
Voices fade behind collagen men's row.
Rainy horses assemble on a track.
Undead earthworms plot a crochet attack.