People read this book and enjoy it. It only reinforces my pseudo-intellectual cred that I am not enjoying it. My French is too rusty, my Latin nonexistent, I didn't read Don Quixote, nor did I study philosophy in college. I can sort of follow the gist, but that is not enough to make it fun. I guess I know most of the words in the sentences, at least the current definitions, but, man, I do not know what this guy means when he strings them together in his most English, most Sir Harumphs-a-lot manner.
Random sentence to prove my point:
If the fixure of Momus's glass in the human breast, according to the proposed emendation of that arch-critick, had taken place, -first, This foolish consequence would certainly have followed, -That the very wisest and very gravest of us all, in one coin or other, must have paid window-money every day of our lives.
The worst part is that I know he is making jokes and I don't get them. There's nothing I hate worse than not getting jokes. It makes me feel so deaf and out-of-the-loop.
It's a bit of irony that this piece of literary history from the 1760s gives me a little taste of what my creaking, elderly, senile future will be like, when all the youngsters make jokes about their iFaces while I sit by, letting the nonsense syllables flow over me and fall gently asleep.