Simply to echo the views of other reviewers: this is no dry academic translation of Cervantes' wildly comic Ur-novel. It is a priceless, peerless work of art in itself, and if it falls short in literalness, it brims with life, wisdom, genius...what can you say about a book that's lasted 400 years, in a translation that's 250 years old and still selling well, in new editions (even though it's on the Internet as a big fat freebie)? Why even review something so CERTIFIABLY GREAT? Only in the hope, I think, that you might nudge someone into reading something they might otherwise just set aside as one of those gray musty tomes everyone talks about but hardly anyone still reads.
(And the Modern Library edition, by the bye, is very nicely mounted in mass market and (particularly handsome) trade editions, with an interesting introduction by Carlos Fuentes and a useful set of notes that explain Smollett's language when a word or phrase bounces off contemporary comprehension.)
I'm 61 and finally got to this: you know, 100 books you didn't read in college or at any point afterward but had better read before you assume room temperature. Someone should have told me: Cervantes is BEACH READING. Or an AIRPLANE BOOK. Stow that John Grisham and read DON QUIXOTE!!! Gustav Mahler was fond of saying a symphony should embrace, or contain, or express, a universe. Don Quixote is often described as the first novel, and in this first time out Cervantes got pretty much all of his universe into the book. And then some. IN almost bite-sized chunks - a picaresque concatenation of tales that can be digested in those small bits or in much longer, multi-course meals. And Cervantes/Smollett renders this faraway world, culture, set of mores, a people and a time we can never experience directly (except in dreams)as freshly accessible, vital, vividly present, in page after sparkling page.
And after 400 years, we're not all that changed, are we?
As I commented to another reviewer, life is indeed short, and Don Quixote is l o n g , but the probability is you won't read this only once. Indeed, if you actually purchase the Smollett and lodge it in your library, I surmise you'll return to it (or passages of it) again. And again. And again. Especially if you happen to settle on Dickens, who so thoroughly absorbed Cervantes that he seems almost to have reproduced a work by him - not as in the Borges story of the scholar who reproduces, verbatim, Cervantes' novel - in capturing precisely the same dignified lunatic-serious sensibility in The Pickwick Papers. Or if you ever wonder whatever happened to the Shakespeare-Fletcher "Cardenio," you find him first, here in Cervantes.
Tobias Smollett's bawdy, high-toned translation of Don Quixote - produced by a gifted writer steeped in an inherited Elizabethan fondness for brilliantly flowing rhetorical superabundance - is to my mind the absolutely PERFECT reading experience, one of those rare books you might wish you hadn't read, so intensely might you long to experience (again) the pleasure of discovery.