Vanity Fair
I like to imagine that if I would have read this back in the 1840s as it was being published, and there had been such a thing as the internet, I would have given it five stars. Thackeray's writing is witty and fun and biting, there was just way too much of it to be going on with in one book. I mean, that thing weighs more than my friend Andrew did at birth (this is not hyperbole -- he was 1.4 pounds). But I think I can imagine that if I would have received ten to twenty serialized pages a month, or biweekly or however long it was in between installments, I would have absolutely loved the shit out of this book. (The parts where Narrator Thackeray literally corresponds with complaining, bitchy readers in the middle of the novel made me laugh out loud.)
Worth it, if you want to invest the time. I'm glad I read it, and I can definitely understand why it used to be touted as the greatest British novel of all time.