“In poetry, the era of the blond, rosy cheeked, perfect Petrarchan beauty is over now,” shouts Herr Professor Prissnitz* pointing his finger to blond, rosy cheeked, perfect Michaela* whose leisurely gum-chewing provides a sharp contrast to the zest and energy with which our literature professor delivers his lecture. While she hides her surprise behind an arrogant smirk which in turn hides behind arduous and rhythmic jaw motion, he ups his voice a note and nearly screams “It's YOUR time now!” To my sheer dread and terror he turns that finger to me, while I, pathologically introverted and socially awkward, quickly bury my head in the colossal Norton Anthology of English Literature Seventh Edition/Volume One in front of me, at the same time trying to control the black clouds of anxiety obscuring my vision and to regulate my breathing and pulse by taking slow, deep breaths. The open page before me shows William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 , the infamous sonnet in which he courageously...
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