E.R. Eddison’s 1922 proto-fantasy The Worm Ouroboros is a book entirely sui generis, John C. Wright explains:
In a genre often plagued with forsoothery and faux-archaic speech, it is a wonder to read an author who can pen an entire novel in Elizabethan English without a false step.
But be warned: this is like hearing a classical symphony after a hearing nothing but jazz, rock, and dance music. It is almost not English, but a language older, richer, more elfin yet more gigantic, and as dignified as a king in full regalia leading a pavane, not merely of noblemen and gracious ladies, but demigods in all their splendors.
It’s one of the Classics of Fantasy that I’ve mentioned before.
And it’s unreadable. Lots of the classics are unreadable, viz. Don Quixote.
You’re not reading the right translation of Don Quixote. Read one of the recent ones, Edith Grossman or Samuel Putnam. There’s a lot gnarly old fashioned translations out there in the public domain, giving this book a bad name.