I hate the romantics. All of them. Shelley, Wordworth, Keats. Coleridge. That other guy whose name nobody can ever remember.
Most of all—Byron. Ugh.
They ruined love. They ruined sex. They almost ruined poetry.
Although they were part of the energy that made Mary Shelley write Frankenstein… and they inspired Darrah Teitel’s The Apology. after which I had phenomenal sex. So. I suppose.