I despise American literature.
It takes all the romance and imagery and adventure found in good old reliable British works and sullies it with democratic morals and self-conflicting drama. The human suddenly starts caring about sincerity far too much, overanalyzing the simple pleasures of life; pondering the justice of a cup of tea, and the tragedy of an autumnal sunset. Can't life just be about winning the battle, the girl, and the inheritance, without the whole bothersome issue of the troubled psyche? Humanity got along just fine without antidepressants and shock therapy and quack therapy for centuries. A brisk stroll through the woods cured any problem and a quick duel solved any quarrel. Americans make things complicated, while those overseas can simply drink tea in the morning, read Homer in the afternoon, patronize Mozart in the evening, drink ale with their fellows, and love their wives before the clock strikes twelve. Surely, life would be better spent doing than weeping.
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