I thought when I first heard of this book that the title sounded agreeably Gothic, and was very mistaken. It's a comic novel about the tragic self-importance of a City clerk in the late Victorian era, and the first time I tried to read it, it depressed me to such an extent that I abandoned it. What upset me so much was how ruthless the authors were to the character, they gave him no redeeming virtue and just had him march along, imagining that he's a grand and imposing person, while everyone is laughing at him behind his back. I had to read this for class, so I got through it, but I really didn't think it amusing, I thought it was very sad and pathetic. I read that the main character, Charles Pooter, was hailed by someone as a variation of Don Quixote, but I absolutely disagree, because Don Quixote does actually arouse a reader's sympathy and a feeling that his quests and pretensions do contain something truly touching, while Charles Pooter is meant to arouse nothing but scorn and be the target for mockery, which makes me really disheartened and anxious about being human for some reason. I guess it's just really not my type of humour, I could understand what was funny, but I personally couldn't find it funny.
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