17 March 2015; finally finished the first volume of Tristam Shandi.
We got also introduced to his father’s brother, uncle Toby, a battle maimed army officer and his man-servant, also a crippled veteran, corporal Trim. Further it seems that the author is giving away a lot of storylines; his nose being broken by dr. Slop’s forceps during the birth process, the whole explanation of the reasons why the narrator’s father the name Tristram defined as “unison with Nincompoop” followed by a whole expose of a congress of physicians who decided that in case of an emergency, a baby could be baptized while still stuck into the mother’s womb. And the narrator is even not born at that timeline of the story! Obviously a book written with a dictionary at hand reach by a snob exposing his erudition who wants to make fun of other people, including his readers.
Up to now it didn’t induce any crack of a laughter into me; more a feeling of exasperation of the incapacity of the author to bring an argument to an end without eloping too much. 17th century humor is obviously not spent on me with a narrator who casts himself as a righteous and educated gentleman pushed by an ignorant society into the position of an underdog (you can spot the influence of Cervantes’ Don Quixote, who’s by the way very often quoted by the author, mostly combined with some touch of self-irony, a trait which I found a little refreshing after a whole barrage of bombastic paragraphs).
Dreadfully I decided to finally get over with the 1st volume but to check the headlines of the news first. There I found out that by archeological excavations under the monastically Trinity church in Madrid, they’ve found the remains of Cervantes and his wife Catalina into a crypt, who’s exact location got lost during ensuing renovations. Into the same article Cervantes was prized for his Don Quixote, as the author of the first novel ever written known to the world literature.
It seems that most scientists are still too much biased by their Western upbringing and blinded by the shockwave that the invention of the book press and the ensuing scientifically Tsunami have caused into the western society, known as the Illumination (the light went on in Europe while the rest of the world remained blissfully into the darkness). Meanwhile you and I know better.
But back to our dear Tristram and his melodramatically surroundings. The first chapter ends by the mistress of the house lying upstairs in agony, trying to give birth to a child with the men (physician included, the instruments of his trade hanging into a side pocket of the saddle of his into the wild roaming pony, with a servant having the task to fetch both) are listening to corporal Trim giving a sermon about morals, religion, honor and conscience.
A speech who was at best a fairytale dressed up into a philosophers’ vocabulary and illustrated with metaphors extracted from military architecture by uncle Toby (who’s a little monomaniac about the subject). I suppose 17th century scholarly readers will have found it fun; I found it utterly boring. Afterwards it turns out that the sermon has been written by the local parson (who still has to meet his already revealed doom).
Volume 2; more news from the narrator as a fetus.
This author is collecting anathema like a scavenger, most of them even not having a modicum of literary value. The poor mistress of the house still agonizes upstairs, trying to give birth to the narrator while the Shandies are boring the poor Dr. Slop to dead, the first one with his half-baked philosophies and the second one by relating every sentence to some military tactic or architecture.
The mood of the poor physician didn’t improve when he learned that the future mother dictated that he could only be of assistance when the old midwife didn’t know how to proceed any further.
The only moment when the author got me almost smiling was when he wrote his foreword (half-way the second volume) “- when I sat down, my intent was to write a good book”.
The way to Hell is paved with good intentions.
March 19, 2015
Finally Dr. Slop with his forceps got involved and since it was a difficult birth the curate was called in for an emergency baptism. Due to a long and complicated birth, the child’s face was black and Suzanna, the simpleminded maid came running down asking for the child’s name.
Trismegistus said his father by the time she ran up it was Tristramgistus there is no such name said he curate; Tristram it must be. Shortly afterwards, the narrators condition improved fast.
Comments;
Alas, after five chapters of philosophy about noses, I’m done with Tristram Shandy, gentlemen. I leave it to braver and more determined people to go on with the rest of his life (volumes 3 till 9) but my head feels already like filled up with cotton and I cannot have anymore. Six days spent upon two volumes of nonsense have drained me and there is still a world to be conquered. I decided that these books will not become my Stalingrad, so I turned my back to it and marched further.
The Maharajagar 