Sidney: Buck Up, Astrophil

It’s sad that you think
that even women on the moon
would turn you down. Ouch.

Ashbery: Kevin Again Struggles with 20th–Century Poetry

Perhaps I’m being
obtuse, but WHAT THE FUCK DOES
ANY OF THAT MEAN?

Malory: Polysyllabic Arthurian Assholes

Turns out “Guinevere”
and “Launcelot” are hard names
to cram into a

More: The Purges Will Begin on Tuesday

My ideal kingdom
has just one law: no pants. And
no fugly people.

Poe: It’s Not the Same Usher? Oh, Nevermind

The saddest part is
that there’ll be no more hot beats
to mac ladies with.

H.D.: Well, That’s Not Actually Poetry

Look—I can be an
Imagist, too: seashell, moon,
tree, Amen, anus.

The Faerie Queene: Elizabeth, Age 63, Lacking Teeth and Hair

There is not enough
allegory in the world to
make that bitch pretty.

Shelley: But Then Again, You Never Did Anything Good For Humanity

I wish it was you
out there on that rock, getting
your liver pecked out.

Langland: Reason #3,428 Why My Life Is Nothing Like "Piers Plowman"

In my dreams, I don’t
see Jesus—just the usual
face-eating monkeys.

Franklin: I'll Get You the Money By Tuesday, I Swear

I can see why you’re
on the twenty, Ben: you’re a
dick about money.

Ellison: From the White, Male Establishment

Mister Narrator,
on behalf of us all, I
want to say: our bad.

Wycherley: Mrs. Pinchwife’s Infidelity Is Just…

More proof that I should
keep locking Jessie in the
basement while I’m out.

Fielding: Three Things I Have In Common With Tom Jones

A generous heart,
dedication to friends, and
a love of titties.

Thoreau: It Doesn’t Count As Ownership If You Borrow Everything

Henry: Bring back my
axe, you mooching, lazy fuck.
--Your goddamned neighbor

Keats: Little Known Historical Fact

TB didn’t kill
Keats. Chuck Norris did. In a
rhymed-couplet cage match.

Milton (1): In Your Face, Milton

I may never write
the world’s greatest poem, but
at least I can see.

Milton (2): I Frequently Confuse the Two

Misogyny! Snakes!
Fire! Paradise Lost...or
Indiana Jones?

Stoppard's Arcadia: Why Never to Read the Production Notes

All I can see now
is Bill Nighy plowing an
eighteen-year-old girl.

Sir Gawain (1): I’m Glad It Wasn’t My Feast

If a guy came to
my party and got beheaded,
I would poop myself.

Sir Gawain (2): King Arthur Is So Lame

No, it’s cool, Gawain.
You go. I’ll hang out here with
the wenches. Peace out.

Clarissa: My Marginalia Begins and Ends on the First Page

No no no no no
no, good fucking god, no more
fucking Richardson.

The Scarlet Letter: Explanatory Notes Really Ruin My Enjoyment of the Text

Oh, I get it: that
“A” stands for adultery,
not “anal rapist.”

Woman Warrior: Sometimes, A Direct Quote Is Far Better Than Anything I Could Possibly Write

He used to put his
naked penis on the dinner
table, laughing.

Othello: Sometimes Auto-erotic Asphyxiation Goes a Little Too Far

Doth Othello need
to choke a bitch? Forsooth, he
needs must choke a bitch.

Tennyson: The SparkNotes Summary of “In Memoriam”

Too bad I never
get to cup Hallam’s perfect
balls ever again.

Moby Dick: It’s Whatever You Want It To Be

The white whale is a
metaphor for a giant,
shiny, wet ----.

The Wanderer: I'm So Ronery

Waaaah waaaah. Look at me:
No one likes me. I’m so sad.
Why? I smell like poo.

Beowulf: Thanks, but I Think I’ll Sit This One Out

Who wants to get messed
up on mead and beat up
monsters...or women?

Dryden: Why His Political Philosophy Never Really Caught On

Hooray, monarchy!
Fat, ruthless kings are clearly
looking out for us.

Browning: My Last Duchess Goes Very Well with a Glass of Chianti

What happened to my
last wife? I sure didn’t kill
and eat her. No way.

Walcott: A Brief Commentary on the Marginalia in my Library Copy of “Omeros”

To the person who
wrote that a swallow is a
“lizard:” You’re brilliant.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale: I’d Hit That...Wait, No, No I Wouldn’t

Hey, baby, you look
hott in dem scarlet hose. Damn,
but you old. No thanks.

The Miller's Tale: The Soul of Comedy

Nothyng funier
than kisyng annus. Except
for mydgets on fyre.

Beloved: No Wonder Her Show Does So Well

I never knew that
Oprah once was a slave. Or
a baby-killer.

Donne: ...I Guess That Explains the Rash

That flea sucked on us
both. Wait. My mistake. That was
a prostitute. Neat.

Swift: Culinary Suggestions, Courtesy of "A Tale of a Tub"

Would you like some of
my brown loaf? No? Well, then go
fuck yourself, coat-boy.

Faulkner: Somebody Needs to Buy a Good Time for the Slow Guy

Everybody gets
some, except for Benjy. That’s sad.
Hush, retarded dude.

Tristram Shandy: Who Says That Books Don't Teach Us Anything Useful?

Something Laurence Sterne
taught me: Keep your penis
away from windows.

York Mystery Plays: How I Imagine Every Medieval Text That I Read

Guy playing Jesus
Has no teeth. Gross. That’s how the
Middle Ages roll.

Pope: Dryden's Mini-Me

Pope was a short name
for a short man. That poor, poor
midget. Still—screw him.

Herbert: How Thee Delight Mee

Nothing says, “Hi, I’m
a religious poet” like
the phrase “taste my meat.”

Middlemarch: It's Minor Eliot

Middlemarch: dudes, chicks,
marriage or something. Who cares?
I didn’t read it.

A Long Day's Journey Into Night: It's the Best Thing to Do with $6, Really

Jaime bangs a fat
prostitute. Good for him. Hope
he enjoys the clap.

The Beginning...Sort Of...

Slept until noon. Shit.
Yet again, Eugene O’Neill
loses to liquor.

Hello, Summer!

Nothing says fun like a seven-page, single-spaced reading list covering every major work of English literature from Beowulf to Beloved. Measuring up to something in the neighborhood of 13,000 pages, the Master's Exam Reading List is its own private hell. And then you actually have to take the exam itself. Oh, frabjous day!

To save my own sanity--and to delight my brothers-in-arms (or whatever voyeurs might happen across this blog)--I will be posting daily haikus here for the next two months. They will be about the books, the authors, and just the general feelings of warmth and fuzziness that arise from reading seven or eight hours a day, every day, for two months straight.

Bon appetit.