I love the English major. All these people are just like me. Oftentimes I am extremely partial to making fun of them, making unfair fun of them, and their embarrassing feelings about literature. But! But. Today, these people and their scary overamounts of feelings were endearing. When we discussed Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage, and consequently, Napoleon, and then, Napoleon being Satan, and then, Byron being Satan (wrong), and then, Napoleon being Voldemort, and then, Napoleon as Hitler, and a Death Eater, so like a pseudo-Napoleon-Death-Voldemort-Eater-Satan, I just had to laugh in belonging and squiggle down further into my chair in comfortable, nerdy delight.
People who hold the understanding that Voldemort and Byron may be equally important, people who beg their professors to tell them stories about Mary Shelley keeping her husband's heart wrapped in one of his poems in a drawer after he died, people who shudder audibly at comma splices, math, anthologies, short-hand text messaging, chemistry, the scientific method, Sparknotes, and spellcheck...these are my kind.
I even loved the Stephanie Meyer Club (AKA Bad And Not To Mention Unoriginal Taste In Literature) Members in my British Lit class today--that's how much unbounded affection I was sporting this afternoon.