I spent entirely too much time reading this book to essay what it is that catapults this behemoth into my favorite novels. This has partially to do with the fact that so much has already been said that it feels a bit silly to say anything else. If you need an argument as to why you should read it, you can always Google it.

Otherwise, I guess what kinda clotheslined me about this was how much I came to detest Sancho Panza. Granted, his foolishness and simplicity are so well-captured that he's always good for a guffaw, but ultimately I couldn't help but just loathe him--for his unearned arrogance, his selfish chicanery, and his total lack of a shred of wherewithal. Nothing is remotely affecting about him until the last fifty pages of the book, and by that point Quixote has done so much for him that Panza practically owes his life to the guy.

For some reason, I feel the need to point out that "Lollipop" is playing out on the street and that I absolutely detest this song.

Anyways, I'm coming off like a prick here. That doesn't do justice to how uplifting this book is, whether through its timeless humor, sheer breadth, rhythm of prose, or even just as an escape. And really, after the last two months, who didn't need it?