The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman Laurence Sterne (short novels to read .txt) 📖

desperate and unconquerable theories so many fine heads have been turned and cracked⁠⸺⁠never did my uncle Toby’s the least injury at all; my father knew it⁠—and was no less surprised than he was disappointed, with my uncle’s fortuitous solution.

Do you understand the theory of that affair? replied my father.

Not I, quoth my uncle.

—But you have some ideas, said my father, of what you talk about?⁠—

No more than my horse, replied my uncle Toby.

Gracious heaven! cried my father, looking upwards, and clasping his two hands together⁠⸺⁠there is a worth in thy honest ignorance, brother Toby⁠⸺’twere almost a pity to exchange it for a knowledge.⁠—But I’ll tell thee.⁠⸺⁠

To understand what time is aright, without which we never can comprehend infinity, insomuch as one is a portion of the other⁠⸺⁠we ought seriously to sit down and consider what idea it is we have of duration, so as to give a satisfactory account how we came by it.⁠⸺⁠What is that to anybody? quoth my uncle Toby.8 For if you will turn your eyes inwards upon your mind, continued my father, and observe attentively, you will perceive, brother, that whilst you and I are talking together, and thinking, and smoking our pipes, or whilst we receive successively ideas in our minds, we know that we do exist, and so we estimate the existence, or the continuation of the existence of ourselves, or anything else, commensurate to the succession of any ideas in our minds, the duration of ourselves, or any such other thing coexisting with our thinking⁠⸺⁠and so according to that preconceived⁠⸻You puzzle me to death, cried my uncle Toby.

⸻’Tis owing to this, replied my father, that in our computations of time, we are so used to minutes, hours, weeks, and months⁠⸺⁠and of clocks (I wish there was not a clock in the kingdom) to measure out their several portions to us, and to those who belong to us⁠⸺⁠that ’twill be well, if in time to come, the succession of our ideas be of any use or service to us at all.

Now, whether we observe it or no, continued my father, in every sound man’s head, there is a regular succession of ideas of one sort or other, which follow each other in train just like⁠⸻A train of artillery? said my uncle Toby⁠⸺⁠A train of a fiddlestick!⁠—quoth my father⁠—which follow and succeed one another in our minds at certain distances, just like the images in the inside of a lantern turned round by the heat of a candle.⁠—I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, mine are more like a smoak-jack.⁠⸻Then, brother Toby, I have nothing more to say to you upon that subject, said my father.

XIX

⸺⁠What a conjecture was here lost!⁠⸺⁠My father in one of his best explanatory moods⁠—in eager pursuit of a metaphysical point into the very regions, where clouds and thick darkness would soon have encompassed it about;⁠—my uncle Toby in one of the finest dispositions for it in the world;⁠—his head like a smoak-jack;⁠⸺⁠the funnel unswept, and the ideas whirling round and round about in it, all obfuscated and darkened over with fuliginous matter!⁠—By the tombstone of Lucian⁠⸺⁠if it is in being⁠⸺⁠if not, why then by his ashes! by the ashes of my dear Rabelais, and dearer Cervantes!⁠⸻my father and my uncle Toby’s discourse upon time and eternity⁠⸺⁠was a discourse devoutly to be wished for! and the petulancy of my father’s humour, in putting a stop to it as he did, was a robbery of the Ontologic Treasury of such a jewel, as no coalition of great occasions and great men are ever likely to restore to it again.

XX

Tho’ my father persisted in not going on with the discourse⁠—yet he could not get my uncle Toby’s smoak-jack out of his head⁠—piqued as he was at first with it;⁠—there was something in the comparison at the bottom, which hit his fancy; for which purpose, resting his elbow upon the table, and reclining the right side of his head upon the palm of his hand⁠⸺⁠but looking first stedfastly in the fire⁠⸺⁠he began to commune with himself, and philosophize about it: but his spirits being wore out with the fatigues of investigating new tracts, and the constant exertion of his faculties upon that variety of subjects which had taken their turn in the discourse⁠⸻the idea of the smoak-jack soon turned all his ideas upside down⁠—so that he fell asleep almost before he knew what he was about.

As for my uncle Toby, his smoak-jack had not made a dozen revolutions, before he fell asleep also.⁠⸺⁠Peace be with them both!⁠⸺⁠Dr. Slop is engaged with the midwife and my mother above stairs.⁠⸺⁠Trim is busy in turning an old pair of jackboots into a couple of mortars, to be employed in the siege of Messina next summer⁠—and is this instant boring the touch-holes with the point of a hot poker.⁠⸺⁠All my heroes are off my hands;⁠—’tis the first time I have had a moment to spare⁠—and I’ll make use of it, and write my preface.

The Author’s Preface

No, I’ll not say a word about it⁠⸺⁠here it is;⁠—in publishing it⁠—I have appealed to the world⁠⸺⁠and to the world I leave it;⁠—it must speak for itself.

All I know of the matter is⁠—when I sat down, my intent was to write a good book; and as far as the tenuity of my understanding would hold out⁠—a wise, aye, and a discreet⁠—taking care only, as I went along, to put into it all the wit and the judgment (be it more or less) which the great Author and Bestower of them had thought fit originally to give me⁠⸻so that, as your worships see⁠—’tis just as God pleases.

Now, Agelastes (speaking dispraisingly) sayeth, That there may be some wit in it, for aught he knows⁠⸺⁠but no judgment at all. And Triptolemus and Phutatorius agreeing thereto, ask, How is it possible there should? for that wit and judgment in this world never go together; inasmuch as they are two operations differing from each other as wide as east from west⁠⸻So, says Locke⁠⸺⁠so are