I must begin, dear reader, with a warning: Tristram Shandy is not a novel - it is a literary striptease performed by a madman with a feather quill and far too much time on his hands. Approaching it as one might approach a standard narrative is like bringing a map to a dream: utterly useless … Continue reading Confessions of a Shandean: Or, How I Came to Love a Book That Can’t Keep Its Trousers On