In light of our interest in authorial prefaces to help make sense of these early novels and to assess what the authors themselves believed they were doing, I resolved to remember to pay attention when I began my reading to Sterne’s preface to Tristram Shandy. However, I found nothing like a statement about how art ought to be both diverting and instructive (as in Robinson Crusoe), or an attempt (by means of a preface in the form of a letter from the author to a friend and patron) to defend his novel from (anticipated) charges of being morally offensive and to assert that on the contrary, he intended his story to be morally enriching (as in Tom Jones). Instead, Sterne’s brief preface, a letter like Fielding’s, hints that he sees his novel as having somewhat of a different purpose.

His first paragraph indicates that that he himself is in a rather pitiable condition, removed from society (“in a bye-corner of the kingdom…in a retired thatch’d house”) and plagued by “ill health” (3). His one consolation, he implies, is humor: “being firmly persuaded that every time a man smiles,—but much more so, when he laughs, that it adds something to this Fragment of Life” (3). Sterne then offers the same consolation to “the Right Honourable Mr. Pitt,” to whom he has dedicated his work: “if I am ever told, it [Tristram Shandy] has made you smile, or can conceive that it has beguiled you of one moment’s pain” then the author should be very happy (3). This is as close as Sterne comes to a prefatory defense of his novel or a declaration of its purpose as he sees it, that is, it exists to make people laugh and forget their troubles.

This is a satisfactory purpose for a text, and in beginning to read the novel itself, I felt that Sterne was certainly going to make good on his intent to make me laugh. However, he complicates things only a few pages into the work by having his narrator first write a mock dedication (15) and in the next chapter, insist that the dedication has not “yet been hawk’d about or offered publickly or privately, directly or indirectly, to any one person or personage, great or small” (15) so that he may not be censured for “putting it [the dedication written in the previous chapter] up fairly to publick sale” (16). This, for me, raises further questions about the novel’s purpose: In allowing the narrator to mock dedications in general, does Sterne also mock his own? And if so, does this mockery invalidate what he said in his dedication?

Also clouding the question of the purpose of Tristram Shandy are the narrator’s own assertions of his purpose, primarily in Chapter X of the first volume: “[M]y purpose,” he claims, “is to do exact justice to every creature brought upon the stage of this dramatic work” (18). In clearing up the story of the parson’s horse, the narrator introduces his explanation by saying, “But the truth of the story was as follows” (20). Finally, in the same chapter, the narrator declares, “But this is not the moral of my story” (21)—continuing to explain what the moral actually was. Justice, truth, a moral—in the course of three pages, the narrator offers three different and noble purposes for a novel—none of which are mentioned in Sterne’s own preface. Perhaps for Sterne, humor was a way of getting at all three?         

Or, perhaps, we should simply take the narrator’s word that he simply wants to make money

by selling a dedication. 

The lack of immediate resolutions in TS initially seem to make it the kind of novel that one would, the second time around, start reading from the middle…or whenever the action begins. Tristram (or the narrator) reassures us, however, that he has a master plan, and that we should be patient and trusting. More interestingly, he says that there is good reason to pay attention because there are subtle clues as to what is going on. There can be two effects of his telling us this: (1) we could pay attention to the details because we believe they will contribute to the bigger picture (2) we could give each detail its due attention and try to make meaning of it, even if we don’t believe it leads anywhere in terms of the larger plot. Readers may play along with Point 1, but it seems likely that Point 2 will be the popular option.

In Chapter 19, Tristram talks at length about naming, and how it is often believed that “good or bad names…irresistibly pressed upon our characters and conduct” (47). This seems to be contributing to Point 1: adding to the bigger picture. Since Tristram begins the novel with the contention that his mother’s interruption of his father’s coital motions had determined the very “figure in the world” (5) he became, Tristram’s naming also appears to hold significance. Usually (when it has a meaning), a name given to a child reflects the hopes of the parents for that child. Because Tristram’s name was decided upon through error, and his father detested it, there is the sense of his having turned out for the worse because of this “chance” occurrence, as was the case when his mother had interrupted his father during sex.

Point 2: The act of taking each detail for what it shows, regardless of the rest of the novel, enables us to look closely at some tidbit of knowledge that Sterne wants to impart. In Chapter 18, Tristram mentions his “dear, dear Jenny,” entreating the reader not to form the impression that Jenny is his mistress until she has “better evidence” (45). It would not be impossible, says Tristram, for this Jenny to be his child or his friend. The purpose of this mysterious reference to Jenny, and the subsequent request for suspended judgment implies a kind of training for the reader. In reading about Jenny and agreeing not to categorize her immediately, we are trained to do the same with other similar characters. We continue to entertain our hunches, but keep an open mind about the role the character may fulfill. We are also given Tristram’s opinion that it is possible for men and women to be friends.

Because TS is so replete with unexplained details, or delayed resolutions, it appears that Sterne’s writing will affect more of Point 2 than Point 1. The only way for the reader to not become frustrated while reading is, for the time being, to take each mini-story for what it is in isolation, and to make meaning out of it. In Chapter 22, Tristram declares that “Digressions, incontestably, are the sun-shine – they are the life, the soul of reading,” (64) and in Chapter 25 he says that if it were easy for his reader to guess the circumstances of his characters (Toby, for instance), he should “blush as an author” (69). Book 2, chapter 11 seems to get to the heart of what he holds true: that writing is like talking, and often, talking is not neat and tidy. For the reader with limited time and patience, however, a means of being satisfied with seemingly pointless digressions is to appreciate each piece of knowledge or insight imparted for its individual value.

A modern reader approaching an 18^th-century novel, like Tom Jones (TJ) or The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (TS), might be surprised by the noticeable presence of the narrator. The narrator in these novels is not only present, but he can seem intrusive and downright pushy—directing readers’ judgments, mocking them at times, and dragging them along through seemingly endless digressions. Having already read TJ, I had some idea of what to expect from the narrative voice in TS, and in many ways, my expectations were on target. However, there is one key difference between these two narrators that shifts my perspective as a reader: Tristram Shandy, though narrating his own life story, is not the author. Tristram speaks with an authorial voice, but can I expect him to have the same depth of knowledge as, say, Fielding’s narrator? Tristram seems to think so and takes great pains to build his credibility.

Having spent too many hours in the Writing Center working through essays from freshman comp, I am tempted to use the Toulmin model to analyze Tristram’s many claims. Like 18^th-century authors, though, I must consider my reader, so I will refrain. My reader can pick out Tristram’s warrants on her own time. But I digress…

Sandra Sherman notes the way Fielding uses Bakhtin’s idea of an author’s “essential surplus” of knowledge to entice the reader to read further. This surplus is comprised of information about the story and the characters that the author knows but that the readers, and the characters themselves, do not (Sherman 237).  Like Fielding, Tristram plays with this surplus of knowledge, toying with the reader and leaving stories mid-sentence. But, as I’ve stated before, this can be problematic for the reader since Tristram is a character in the novel, not the author. I could expect Laurence Sterne to have such a surplus, but can I really trust Tristram to relate a story that takes place before he was even born? Throughout the novel, Tristram seems like an omniscient narrator. He recounts in detail what characters are doing and thinking at any given time when, in fact, for many of the events of the novel up to this point, he is a mere Homunculus.

Tristram acknowledges that we are getting his history secondhand. Though he does not mention all of his sources, he does note that his uncle told him the story of his conception. At the beginning of Chapter III, he says, “To my uncle Mr. Toby Shandy do I stand indebted for the preceding anecdote” (7). In other circumstances, Tristram inserts evidential documents directly into the text. He gives his mother’s marriage settlement in its entirety. He also includes a tale from Slawkenbergius and a response from the Doctors of the Sorbonne on the issue of baptism by injection, both in the original language.

It seems, though, that Tristram is not as concerned with proving his knowledge as with proving himself a master storyteller. He begs the reader to “let me go on, and tell my story my own way” (11).  Though he states that he is hesitant to brag on himself, he points out his expert use of progressive digression: “there is a masterstroke of digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been overlooked by my reader” (63).  He plants little hints in the text and chastises the reader when she doesn’t read closely enough to pick up on them. He is even concerned that he has given the reader enough time to prepare his mind for upcoming events. The reader’s experience with the text is of utmost importance to Tristram.

Perhaps we are to view this tale as an oral history, one that is more concerned with the spirit of the events rather than the facts. If this is the case, then I think I am comfortable tagging along behind Tristram through the rest of his story. Though he might not have the same surplus of knowledge that a typical authorial narrator would have, he is, in own unique way, the master of a very unusual type of narrative.

“Writing, when properly managed (as you may be sure I think mine is) is but a different name for conversation” Tristram Shandy, p. 68

One might call the tone of Tristram Shandy “conversational,” with good reason. The fits and starts, the digressions within digressions, all savor of a discussion with a somewhat flighty, if periodically insightful, friend. This is not to say, however, that Tristram Shandy isn’t precise and intentional. The narrator’s conversations with his audience hold an important place within the text. Why, then, does our whimsical (if not capricious) narrator banish “Madam,” his stereotypical female reader, to re-read the previous chapter? What is he trying to achieve?

Shandy challenges Madam at the beginning of the chapter, accusing her of being “inattentive” (35). We then have a somewhat extended dialogue between the two, as she defends herself, claiming to have “miss’d a page” or fallen “asleep,” both of which Shandy rejects for the sake of his pride. Instead, he blames her for “[knowing] nothing at all” and sends her off to reread “the whole chapter over again” (35). Indeed, Shandy appears somewhat patronizing to his alarmed and defensive female reader, treating her as a schoolmaster might, both in his “punishment” of her and in his choice to include the word “whole” in his description of the chapter, which belittles her potential understanding of the task he sets for her.

Here, in the middle of the paragraph, as Madam trots off to do his bidding, Shandy turns to explain himself to his remaining readers. He claims that he has acted thus to “rebuke a vicious taste” that causes readers to jump to the action of a story, rather than read the more ruminative parts of a work (35). He derides such simplistic reading, arguing that even romances like Parismus and Parismenus and romantic characters such as the Seven Champions of England provide the profit he cites Pliny the younger as finding in every book he read (35).

And yet, Madam then returns, and we pick up the conversation with her again, as if she had physically removed herself from the conversation to reread the previous chapter. Fascinatingly, there is no implication she takes the time to review the conversation that takes place in her absence, as we would have done if we had followed her to reread the previous chapter ourselves. Instead, Shandy immediately engages her via questioning and reveals that she misses the all-important indicator of his mother’s religious beliefs because of a lack of familiarity with an obscure meeting held in 1733. Of significant interest is that, arguably, Madam has no voice in this second conversation. She responds, as we see Shandy respond to her by repeating all or part of her responses, but in his repetition, he omits her presence (35).

This very small conversation, then, has interesting implications for the way time functions within the novel and for the role and the agency of the reader. As he does elsewhere in the novel, such as when Mr. Shandy sends Obadiah after Dr. Slop, the narrator here indicates that time is linear and progressive and that the readers are experiencing it in “real time.” The time we spend reading the narrator discuss Pliny, then, is the amount of time Madam spends rereading the previous chapter. This is both important for the structure of the novel, as it suggests that the digressions might be necessary to prolong the reading of certain events, and for the perception of the reader.

In terms of space, Madam spends one half of a paragraph “rereading” a significantly longer section of the book. First, there is a suggestion here that regardless of how quickly we as readers consume this tidbit, Madam is reading at a rapacious pace. Thus, Shandy’s critique of her reading seems born out; if Madam reads so quickly, she is not taking the time to “make wise reflections, and draw curious conclusions” (35). Despite the esoteric nature of the hint, Shandy is justified in his criticism, but his reaction—the removal of her voice from the text—seems marginalizing. While we know Madam returns later in the book (in talking of Sir Toby on page 41, for instance), here she loses the ability to interact with the text because of her choice of reading quickly.

This conversation within the text might stand as a subtle warning to Shandy’s readers, then. He requires us to read closely and with attention, and if we do so, the events within the novel will take place at the pace he wishes. However, if the reader skims the pages, looking for action, not only will she miss interesting information, she will effectually lose her voice within the text, because she will no longer be able to interact with it.

Sterne, Laurence. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. Amazon Digital Services, n.d. eBook.

Like other early novel writers, Laurence Sterne was interested in the possibilities that this new genre gave to the treatment of time.  In his classic work The Rise of the Novel, Ian Watt points to an awareness of the passage of time as a distinguishing factor in the developing novel (22). No longer did works take place in the course of a day; “histories” covered the whole span of a person’s life. The proper pacing of stories became an important consideration for novel writers and had a great impact on the degree of realism that a novel could attain. In Tom Jones Henry Fielding displays a consciousness of this need to pace the history intentionally and explains to the reader his reasons for skipping over years at a time (101).

Interestingly, Sterne seems less concerned in The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen with how much of Shandy’s history to include and more preoccupied with the pace at which the reader digests the story. For instance, he writes, “It is so long since the reader of this rhapsodical work has been parted from the midwife, that it is high time to mention her again to him” (Sterne 31). The emphasis lies less in how much time has elapsed in the events preceding Shandy’s birth and more on how much time has passed in the reader’s receiving of the history.

This concern for the pacing of his audience’s reading experience extends to Sterne’s attempts to control the reader’s pacing. He wants to make time a part of the contract that he establishes with the reader. Ross Chambers notes that “[n]o act of narration occurs without at least an implicit contract” (qtd. in Sherman 236). Both parties have expectations for what they will receive from the writing/reading experience. For Sterne, part of this contract entails the author guiding readers in how fast they should read this work. In the first volume he instructs, “Lay down the book, and I will allow you half a day to give a probable guess at the grounds of this procedure” (16). While this approach of specifying the readers’ time frame is certainly straightforward, Sterne does not rely on merely telling his readers how much time to take off from the text. He also employs temporal markers that he achieves through unusual formatting. When advising his readers to only finish the chapter if they are inquisitive enough, he includes in the text a series of dashes before and after the words “Shut the door” (8). This break in the prose interrupts readers’ attention and gives them an opportunity to do something other than finish the chapter. Later in volume one Sterne has two pages completely blacked out (29-30). These pages stand between the end of poor Yorick’s tale and the resumption of the midwife’s story. The black pages provide a sense of closure and finality to the parson’s tale and cause the reader to pause before moving on to the next chapter.

Although Sterne employs creative means for guiding the readers’ pace, ultimately the reader has the final say in the matter. J. Paul Hunter observes that during the eighteenth century “writing for readers involved greeting them in the privacy of their closets where they were responsible only to themselves for their responses to a world of print” (qtd. in Sherman 233). Readers can easily skip over black pages and ignore instructions to shut the door. Instead of being wholly dependent upon temporal markers in the text, Sterne must also rely on the reader submitting to the author-reader contract. In the dedication, Sterne declares his intention to “fence against the infirmities of ill health, and other evils of life, by mirth” (3). He seems to be promising his readers that if they humor him by going along with his games, they will have fun in the process. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman differs from other texts of its day because it does not limit time to a tool for increasing a work’s realism. Sterne sees time—particularly the pace at which the reader consumes the text—as another facet of the author-reader relationship, hopefully one that will make everyone happy.