There's nothing more endearing to me than a curmudgeonly old fart, and I developed a real soft spot for Smollett's tender-hearted, "risible" misanthrope, Matthew Bramble. I found parts of this epistolary novel a little dry, to be perfectly honest, but every time I was ready to give up entirely, Smollett slapped a lil scatological/slapstick humour, or a letter from Win. Jenkins (you'll see what I mean) to draw me back in. I'd read this book again.