This post could hardly be further from my usual grounds, despite that "fat" is the fourth word of the passage. I'm reading "Bleak House," by Charles Dickens right now and appreciated the skill of the following so much that I just wanted to share it. It is a description of the elder Mr. Turveydrop, a secondary character at best (or, I should say, secondary so far; I'm still reading):

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on, and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must inevitably double up if it were cast loose. He had under his arm a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the brim, and in his hand a pair of white gloves, with which he flapped it as he stood poised on one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the world but a model of Deportment.

I hestitate to say anything is praise, because he's frickin' Dickens, and what could I possibly say that hasn't been said of a writer still standing after a century and a half? Certainly, he sets a standard of desciption I can aspire to, if only on the grounds that one's reach should exceed his grasp. 

And why am I reading Dickens? 'Cause until a few months ago, I'd never read any (first up: "A Tale of Two Cities"; perhaps you've heard of it?), and I'm trying to mix in the canon with my contemporary, usually cause-related book choices. If it's your sort of thing, connect with me on Goodreads, and we can share our literary follies.