which_chick | (no subject)

So I'm over in Chambersburg today for the property assessment appeal thing (turns out we need to do a quiet title deed of the stuff we got from Mr. L to the owner of the stuff we sold) and I was there a bit early. To kill some time, I took a walk around downtown Chambersburg, which turned out to be mostly full of places that I did not want or need to grace with my custom. There was, however, a used bookstore. There, I bought a book.

The book was Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. I'd never read it. I figured that perhaps I might do so. Now, Mr. Fielding is one of them thar eighteenth century authors who keeps talking to Dear Reader all the fucking time. You might think that this gets old. For some authorial voices, I'm sure it does. Mr. Fielding, however, is a damn funny fellow. He's snarky. This book, posing as literature, is chock full of nasty snark. It's more fun than I generally expect literature to be.

There is the given that you have to wade through eighteenth-century prose for the jokes, but they're really quite good jokes for all that you have to work at 'em. Also, eighteenth-century prose isn't that bad. It's high in fiber. It's probably good for your digestion and whatnot.