Moments in Fiction: Clever and Humorous Descriptions

Here I am with another Moments in Fiction post.  I've called this edition "Clever and Humorous Descriptions" because the excerpts here included are...just that.  Clever and humorous descriptions.  What I mean is, it's not so much the subject itself that is hilarious in these passages, as it is the way the author chooses to describe it.  

Now you may not find these selections as diverting as I did (though if that be the case, I must ask, where's your sense of humor?  --Haha! Jut kidding) but I do hope they will prove of some interest to one or another of you.  And particularly to you, Cordy, as this is the post I promised you months ago.  (Sorry it's taken me so long to actually publish it.  Procrastination really is a thing!  Also lack of inspiration...motivation...dedication...you get the idea.) 
 

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

     Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.  For many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward, a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

     In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before.

Okay, so I hardly know what to say about this, except that, goodness me! This is my kind of humor!  Such creative cleverness to liken Edward's disinherited state to a state of actual decease, and to talk of the publication of his most recent engagement as possibly giving a "sudden turn to his constitution, and [carrying] him off as rapidly as before." *amused chuckle* Seriously, who writes stuff like that?  Precious few of our modern day authors, I'd say.  And it's such a shame because this kind of description adds so much personality to a story (in my humble opinion).  It can turn the most commonplace description into a delightful treat! 

*****

Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell

In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat the two Mr. Carsons, father and son.  Both were reading--the father a newspaper, the son a review--while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food.  The father was a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess.  The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it.  His dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far more gentlemanly than his father's.  He was the only son, and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him; he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud of himself.

I don't know about you, but I literally laughed out loud when I came to the end of that last sentence.  It took me so by surprise.  I just love the way Elizabeth Gaskell chose to describe this character, because honestly, she could have kept it simple and merely written, "His sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him; and he was proud of himself."  But would that have been as interesting?  No indeed!  By adding in that little jab regarding his unwillingness to "set up his judgment" against that of his family's, the author comes at us from a side-wind, bringing a spark of humor to the mix, and almost (it seems) having a laugh herself at her character's expense.   Love it!

*****

Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

"...And now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned--no, I know you wouldn't--for we are proud of little boys that learn.  Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples.  Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?"
     Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish.  He blushed, now, and his eyes fell.  Mr. Walters's heart sank within him.  He said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question--why did the Judge ask him?  Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:
     "Answer the gentleman, Thomas--don't be afraid."
     Tom still hung fire.
     "Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady.  "The names of the first two disciples were ----"
     "DAVID AND GOLIATH!"
     Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

It's that blunt, ending statement that makes this passage so hilarious.  Not that the passage wasn't humorous in and of itself, but that small tag on the end is like the icing on the cake.  And it's so cool, too.  For here's the author himself suddenly appearing before you on the page and saying, "let's have pity on our poor hero.  Let's close the scene."  And you can just hear, beneath those sympathetic words, the author chuckling to himself over his character's sorry predicament.   (And if the author's chuckling, how can you possibly keep yourself from doing so? ;)) This is what I call clever writing.  For though it's obvious the last sentence is not needed in order to further the plot of the story, yet it serves a very important purpose by giving the reader an extra laugh and making the passage that much more memorable.  (That line has in fact been a favorite quote of my brother's for years!  I always think of him when I read it.)

*****

Penrod by Booth Tarkington

     Thus began the Great Tar Fight, the origin of which proved, afterward, so difficult for parents to trace, owing to the opposing accounts of the combatants.  Marjorie said Penrod began it; Penrod said Mitchy-Mitch began it; Sam Williams said Georgie Bassett began it; Georgie and Maurice Levy said Penrod began it; Roderick Bitts, who had not recognized his first assailant, said Sam William began it.

     Nobody thought of accusing the barber.  But the barber did not begin it; it was the fly on the barber's nose that began it--though, of course something else began the fly.  Somehow we never manage to hang the real offender.

Okay, so apparently it's the ending sentences I'm hitting on today.  Why?  Well, because that's where the punch line is, I guess.  "Somehow we never manage to hang the real offender."  Seriously people, if that passage didn't at least make you smile to yourself, I don't know what I'm going to do with you, because that was FUNNY!  Really!  It WAS!  (Well, at any rate, I thought so.)  I just love how the author calmly inserts that statement at the end.  It's a joke, of sorts, but at the same time so ridiculously true, as I think we can safely say, every event in life is triggered by something that came before it.  And of course we could go back in time endlessly trying to figure out who actually began it, but we'll have small success in that regard, for by the time we've arrived at the source, we won't have a clue where we are anymore!  (Which is probably how you're feeling right about now, as that last sentence was most painfully confusing.  And to own the truth, I'm no longer sure where I'm going with this so...just agree with me.  That was a humorous bit of writing.  Wasn't it? Wasn't it? Right.  Thank you.)
  

 

Do you like this kind of humor in writing?

Have you ever come across a modern day novel with this style of description?

(Because if you have, you MUST tell me about it!)

Can you think of any similar passages in any of your favorite books?

(And no, you do not have to answer all of these questions.  I'm just putting them out there in case you'd like to!)