Done With Donne

I've tried to stick it out. I've tried to be one of those stodgy old scholarly types, absorbing the greats of the 17th and 18th centuries and conveniently ignoring the fact that I'm only studying Old Dead White Men.

Oh, I realize that these old dead white men are the basis for many more greats in literature (who still turn out to be... old, dead, white, and male). I realize that one needs these foundations in order to better understand contemporary work. For Whom the Bell Tolls? Straight out of Donne's Devotions, man.

But I have to say this. I am tired of learning about John Donne. I feel that Donne, Hobbes, Herbert, Jonson, and even Shakespeare have been unnecessarily drilled into my head for years and years. No, stodgy old academics, I do not feel my literature education has been rounded out enough! I do not feel that I have improved for taking a class that is as fresh as a month-old box of saltines!

I don't like the fact that I am missing out on literature written by women, by minorities, by those who were not afforded the luxury of these poor old dead white men.

I am done with Donne. Let it be known.

ETA: I realize the ridiculousness of making these statements after submitting a short story for peer review that's titled "Be Not Proud." Minor quibble.