The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne (pdf e book reader txt) đ
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The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, a fictional autobiography of the eponymous narrator, containsâperhaps surprisinglyâlittle about either his life or opinions, but what it does have is a meandering journey through the adventures of his close family and their associates. The book is famous for being more about the explanatory diversions and rabbit-holes that the narrator takes us down than the actual happenings he set out to describe, but in doing so he paints a vivid picture of the players and their personal stories.
Published two volumes at a time over the course of eight years, Tristram Shandy was an immediate commercial success although not without some confusion among critics. Sterneâs exploration of form that pushed at the contemporary limits of what could be called a novel has been hugely influential, garnering admirers as varied as Marx, Schopenhauer, Joyce, Woolf and Rushdie. The book has been translated into many other languages and adapted for the stage, radio, and film.
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- Author: Laurence Sterne
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⸺â There is no gistus to it, noodle!â ââtis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the basonâ âTristram! said he, etc. etc. etc. etc., so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.
My father followed Susannah, with his nightgown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the buttonhole.
⸺â She has not forgot the name? cried my father, half opening the door.â ⸺â No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.â ⸺â And the child is better, cried Susannah.â ⸺â And how does your mistress? As well, said Susannah, as can be expected.â âPish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the buttonholeâ âSo that whether the interjection was levelled at Susannah, or the buttonholeâ âwhether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chambermaids, my chapter of pishes, and my chapter of buttonholes.
All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whiskâd himself aboutâ âand with his breeches held up by one hand, and his nightgown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.
XVI wish I could write a chapter upon sleep.
A fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this moment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawnâ âthe candles put outâ âand no creatureâs eyes are open but a single one, for the other has been shut these twenty years, of my motherâs nurse.
It is a fine subject!
And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a dozen chapters upon buttonholes, both quicker and with more fame, than a single chapter upon this.
Buttonholes! there is something lively in the very idea of âemâ ⸺â and trust me, when I get amongst âemâ ⸺â You gentry with great beardsâ ⸺â look as grave as you willâ ⸝Iâll make merry work with my buttonholesâ âI shall have âem all to myselfâ ââtis a maiden subjectâ âI shall run foul of no manâs wisdom or fine sayings in it.
But for sleepâ ⸺â I know I shall make nothing of it before I beginâ âI am no dab at your fine sayings in the first placeâ âand in the next, I cannot for my soul set a grave face upon a bad matter, and tell the worldâ ââtis the refuge of the unfortunateâ âthe enfranchisement of the prisonerâ âthe downy lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the brokenhearted; nor could I set out with a lye in my mouth, by affirming, that of all the soft and delicious functions of our nature, by which the great Author of it, in his bounty, has been pleased to recompense the sufferings wherewith his justice and his good pleasure has wearied usâ ⸺â that this is the chiefest (I know pleasures worth ten of it); or what a happiness it is to man, when the anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he lies down upon his back, that his soul shall be so seated within him, that whichever way she turns her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet above herâ âno desireâ âor fearâ âor doubt that troubles the air, nor any difficulty past, present, or to come, that the imagination may not pass over without offence, in that sweet secession.
âGodâs blessing,â said Sancho Pança, âbe upon the man who first invented this selfsame thing called sleepâ âit covers a man all over like a cloak.â Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dissertations squeezâd out of the heads of the learned together upon the subject.
âNot that I altogether disapprove of what Montaigne advances upon itâ ââtis admirable in its wayâ â(I quote by memory).
The world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as they do that of sleep, without tasting or feeling it as it slips and passes by.â âWe should study and ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks to him who grants it to us.â âFor this end I cause myself to be disturbed in my sleep, that I may the better and more sensibly relish it.â ⸺â And yet I see few, says he again, who live with less sleep, when need requires; my body is capable of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden agitationâ âI evade of late all violent exercisesâ ⸺â I am never weary with walkingâ ⸺â but from my youth, I never liked to ride upon pavements. I love to lie hard and alone, and even without my wifeâ ⸺â This last word may stagger the faith of the worldâ ⸺â but remember, âLa Vraisemblance (as Bayle says in the affair of Liceti) nâest pas toujours du CĂ´tĂŠ de la VeritĂŠ.â And so much for sleep.
XVIIf my wife will but venture himâ âbrother Toby, Trismegistus shall be dressâd and brought down to us, whilst you and I are getting our breakfasts together.â ⸝
⸺â Go, tell Susannah, Obadiah, to step here.
She is run upstairs, answered Obadiah, this very instant, sobbing and crying, and wringing her hands as if her heart would break.
We shall have a rare month of it, said my father, turning his head from Obadiah, and looking wistfully in my uncle Tobyâs face for some timeâ âwe shall have a devilish month of it, brother Toby, said my father, setting his arms akimbo, and shaking his head; fire, water, women, windâ âbrother Toby!â ââTis some misfortune, quoth my uncle Toby.â ⸺â That it is, cried my fatherâ âto have so many jarring elements breaking loose, and riding triumph in every corner of a gentlemanâs houseâ âLittle boots it to the peace of a family, brother Toby, that you and I possess ourselves, and sit here silent and unmovedâ ⸺â whilst such a storm is whistling over our heads.â ⸝
And whatâs the matter, Susannah? They have called
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