It’s time for me to come out of the closet: I am a secret English major. I have harbored a passion for Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, and H. G. Wells quietly for too long. I have lusted in my heart for Dickensian prose.
You probably know that I was not a real English major in college. I furtively took a few courses in the English department, like Helena Michie’s Victorian fiction class, and loved it. But I had already made a commitment to linguistics, and it was too late to change that.
So I continued reading Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde on my own. I watched BBC productions of Pride and Prejudice on the side. When I got up the courage, I would even bring these topics up in conversation with my real English major friends.
No more. It’s time I come out of the shadows and embrace my passions openly. I will read Tom Jones for pleasure, all Chipotle workers be damned. I will read Middlemarch with shame no more.
Now that you know my painful secret, I only hope you can continue being my friend.