Favourite classic book

So this month's Classic Club meme is what is your favourite classic book and why. Well I've been avoiding thinking about this question for a long time, but I think the time has come to face it. I'm not sure I feel qualified enough to say really, having not read enough classics in my opinion, but here goes...

...I've been thinking for the past five minutes - and I still haven't been able to narrow it down! One should jump out at me, but instead five jump out at me, and then another two trickle along, followed by another latecomer. I've decided the best way to do this is to have a big ole brainstorm, or blogstorm:

-The Master and Margarita was brilliant, but I read it so recently and I'm still not sure it will stand up as my favourite in the long run...
-Anna Karenina perhaps
-The Bell Jar was an amazing book
-Oh but then if we're including children's classics then there's Wind in the Willows!
-I loved The Great Gatsby 
-and The Road
-Nineteen Eighty-four was brilliant
-But if we're doing it in terms of enjoyment then maybe a Sherlock Holmes....

Aahh - I can't decide.

Okay I'll be strict: The Wind in the Willows. 

Instead of explaining why I love it, I think I'll just leave you with the opening passage - and you'll understand :)

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring- cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said `Bother!' and `O blow!' and also `Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, `Up we go! Up we go!' till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.