The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

started great but boy oh boy... pure torture from then on out.

This book is terribly long with so many digressions and drawn out descriptions, but it's an absolute treat. Full of humor, wit, and insight into human nature. Somewhat reminded me of Don Quixote, but while I considered giving up on that book many times, it never crossed my mind reading this one.

“Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be; for, perhaps, thou may‰ЫЄst be as learned in human nature as Shakespeare himself was, and, perhaps thou may‰ЫЄst be no wiser than some of his editors.”

—

“Scenes like this, when painted at large, afford, as we have observed, very little entertainment to the reader. Here, therefore, we shall strictly adhere to a rule of Horace; by which writers are directed to pass over all those matters which they despair of placing in a shining light;‰ЫУ a rule, we conceive, of excellent use as well to the historian as to the poet; and which, if followed, must at least have this good effect, that many a great evil (for so all great books are called) would thus be reduced to a small one.”

—

“We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth, we have, from this reason alone, often done great violence to the luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent descriptions out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the case, from our own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the pages of voluminous historians.‰Ыќ

—

“Foretell me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia, she reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall from her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future praise. Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour in which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished box, I shall be read with honour by those who never knew now saw me, and whom I shall neither know nor see.”