Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia Book

Okay, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I read all of this. I'm not even going to claim that heretofore allegedly there may or may not have been a point the duration of which is uncertain that a person, namely myself, might have concurrently been disposed to a proportionate reading of the aforementioned text which may or may not have resulted in the phrase, "I read most of it."

What I will say is, I read enough of it, and the enough I read was also enough to question whether or not the Renaissance ever actually happened, because a text this foul could only have come out of the Dark Ages. This was an excruciating book, the kind of small font, paragraph free, ye olden prose nightmare that I used to ponder as a kid leafing through my dad's med school textbooks. Aside from a few interesting poems (I have no use for poetry), the story was akin to something Shakespeare might have done with one notable exception. It wasn't Shakespeare.

Retreat from this novel like the Persians from Greece after Platea. Philip Sidney invented boredom in the late 1500s. This is the result. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.