One.

Dear Victorian Literature,

I love you. You've taught me many things, to like boring books and also ones that are interesting, to love and be brave, to be brave, to be mean. I say this because I've never told you before that I love you, and I've never considered why. I love that you produced Bleak House and Little Dorrit, even though they say Charles Dickens was popular and mean. I love Aurora Leigh because someone awesome told me to, and I also love it because it's beautiful, poetic, and true. I like things that are true, especially if they're beautiful and definitely if they're true. I love a new poem, "The Other Side of the Mirror," of yours, which of course isn't new to the world, or even to me. I just newly love it, when before I thought it was meh. J'adore Les Miserables, parce que, je ne sais pas... J'adore "Jenny" en francais, uh, benediction. Je m'appelle Caroline, evidemment. J'adore tout le monde.

I'm finished with you now, for today, not for forever. We will meet again, in some dark alley or sunny beach, and we will laugh and be in love again. Today, though I move on to the future: the 1900's and beyond. You'll be proud when you see how much I'm enjoying it already. You'll be sad at first, like any lover would, but you'll be glad to know I've made something of myself without you. We both know you brought me this far, but you're old and I'm not. I'm not telling you it's time to die, because you'll never do something stupid like that, and also because I still will love you forever. I'm just now in love with other literatures. Thanks for everything. I'd tell you this in person, but you wouldn't believe me. Plus the number one thing I love about you, other than your queen and your social progress, is letters. I love letters, and I love that you love letters, so it's sensible to write you a proper letter.

Take care now, I'll speak well of you for forever,
me.