In this blog post, we explore how Lawrence Sterne and his masterpiece ‘Tristram Shandy’ used humor and candor to explore human fallibility and imperfection through the reader’s identification with the narrator, and why the work sparked such enthusiasm among European intellectuals of the time.

The Writer with the Freest Spirit

Lawrence Sterne (1713–1768), a vicar in a quiet rural village in the Yorkshire region of England, published the first and 2 at his own expense in December 1759. As soon as this work was introduced in London, he rose rapidly from an obscure country parson to a figure sought out by London’s elite; the series, which was published in a total of nine volumes by 1767, caused a major sensation throughout Europe.
Even in Paris, where he went for a recuperative stay in 1762, intellectuals and members of high society vied to invite him. One of the work’s defining features is that readers identified the author, Sterne, with the narrator, Tristram, and found themselves drawn to Tristram’s exaggerated revelations of his own flaws. The appeal of Tristram/Sterne as a fluid human being who defies categorization stems from the narrator’s free-spirited and candid demeanor.
The title “A Gentleman” refers to a status that people often aspire to, but in the context of this novel, it can also denote someone who hides or suppresses their raw human nature. Things that are not essential to a human being are transformed into necessities for attaining the status of a gentleman, and those straddling the line between a gentleman and an ordinary person end up experiencing countless imaginary shortcomings in their quest to attain that status.
Another of Sterne’s works, ‘A Sentimental Journey’, begins with a scene in which the narrator, Yorick—who has no experience of Europe—is prompted by a servant’s question, “Have you ever been to France?” to hastily embark on a trip to Europe. This illustrates how the experience of traveling to Europe functions as a significant deficiency for someone who wishes to be treated as a gentleman.
Some female critics view Sterne as anti-feminist; one of the grounds for this is that Tristram’s mother, Elizabeth, stayed home rather than joining the family on their Grand Tour of Europe. However, in the novel, Tristram defines the Grand Tour as “the qualification to boast about having been abroad,” while Elizabeth is portrayed as indifferent to such qualifications. If Yorick is a character who aspires to become a gentleman, Elizabeth is one who has no interest in that title, and Tristram, throughout the novel, works to break free from the confines of the “gentleman” framework.

Life and Background of the Work

Stern was born into a class that occupied the periphery of the gentry, and from around the age of ten, he grew up increasingly aware of his position on the margins while surrounded by relatives who were firmly established within the gentry. His father, Roger Stern, came from a distinguished family but was himself a junior officer, and his mother, Agnes, lived near military bases; as a result, their marriage was financially precarious.
Stern recalled that, regarding his birth, his father had told him he was born on an inauspicious day. There was the misfortune that his father’s regiment was officially disbanded on the day of his birth, and as a result, the family returned to England and spent an unstable period living with relatives.
Although the regiment was later reestablished and moved to Dublin, his childhood continued to be marked by instability as the family moved from place to place across England and Ireland following the unit’s relocations, living in barracks, at relatives’ homes, or in lodgings provided to them.
Sturn’s memoirs include an anecdote from when he was about seven or eight years old, in which he fell into a watermill ditch but was rescued unharmed. This story, reminiscent of the episode in which Tristram sustained an injury to his genitals as a child yet survived unscathed, brought back memories of hundreds of people coming to gawk at him. Furthermore, the experience of having several younger siblings born only to have most of them die at a young age made him familiar with death from an early age.
In 1723, when he was ten years old, his father obtained leave from his regiment to take him to Yorkshire, where relatives lived, and enrolled him in school; his father then returned to Ireland. After his father’s death in 1731, Stern was able to complete his studies at Jesus College, Cambridge, thanks to the support of relatives following the death of his paternal uncle and a scholarship named after his great-grandfather. Even after graduating from university in 1737 and being ordained as a priest, the support of his wealthy relatives played a major role in his independence; for instance, with the help of his uncle—a prominent clergyman—he was able to take charge of a parish.
In 1741, after two attempts at courtship, he married Elizabeth Rumley, who came from a good family, and established a stable home; though they had one daughter, it is said that his marriage was not a happy one, as his wife was frail in both body and mind.
Sturn served as the vicar of the parishes of Sutton and Stillington, and acted as an honorary canon at York Minster, where he occasionally delivered impressive sermons. He was an amateur artist who dabbled in farming, played the violin, and painted; he was also known as a member of the “Haunted People,” a social circle where friends discussed literature and the classics and enjoyed hunting and fishing. He is also sometimes described as a man with a roguish streak.
Sturn’s early literary activities were limited to sermons and political journalism written at his uncle’s request. In 1759, he published approximately 500 copies of a pamphlet titled ‘A Political Romance’, which satirized the political dispute surrounding the Archbishop of York’s special jurisdiction within the Church of York; however, at the church’s request, most copies were confiscated and burned, leaving him to suffer a bitter setback, with only a few copies remaining. This bitter experience became the catalyst for him to embark in earnest on a career as a writer.
Through that failure, Sterne confirmed his talent for writing and chose a path of humorously exploring universal human issues through self-parody rather than directly satirizing real people. The result was ‘Tristram Shandy’. Around the time he was writing this work, his wife began showing signs of a nervous breakdown, and and Sterne himself was plagued by various difficulties, including conflicts with the religious establishment. Perhaps this work served as an outlet to dilute and resolve those inner struggles.
It has been over 250 years since Volumes 1 and 2 of ‘Tristram Shandy’ were first published, and opinions on the work vary widely. However, an anonymous review published in the ‘London Magazine’ in February 1760, shortly after the work’s introduction in London, is perhaps the piece that most “Shandy-like” captures the book’s essential character.
Oh, wondrous Tristram Shandy! — Truly discerning — humorous — poignant — full of humanity — and indescribable! — What shall we call you? — Rabelais, Cervantes, or what should I call you? — As we survey your life—though I suppose I cannot really call it a life, since your mother is still in labor—I feel I must express my gratitude for the genuine pleasure you have provided. Your Uncle Toby—your Yorick—your father—Dr. Slop—Corporal Trim—you have portrayed all these characters superbly, and your insights are warm and heartfelt as well! Even if you were to publish fifty volumes in this manner, provided they were all as rich in edification and pleasure as this one, I dare say you would continue to be read and praised—praised? By whom? Well, if not by the greatest number of people, then at least by the best of them.
Of course, Sterne did not write 50 volumes as imagined in the review. After publishing Volume 9 in 1767, he discontinued ‘Tristram Shandy’ and began writing a new work, ‘A Journey of the Sentiments’; he planned to write four volumes of this work, published Volumes 1 and 2, and then passed away in March 1768. Furthermore, praise for him seems to have been limited not to the greatest number of people, but rather to those who understood and appreciated his hybrid and enigmatic nature.
It is perhaps only natural that reactions to this work—which, as this review pointed out, is a striking blend of discernment, humor, pathos, love for humanity, Rabelaisian and Cervantes-esque comedy, and even a touch of obscenity—were so varied. Reactions vary depending on the reader’s moral, humanistic, and social views, or on whether the reader accepts the complex elements within human nature as they are, or seeks to suppress some elements while encouraging others. Some praised Sterne as the possessor of the freest spirit, like Goethe or Nietzsche, while others, such as Samuel Johnson or Horace Walpole, dismissed the work as a collection of bizarre or trivial events. Furthermore, there were quite a few who harshly criticized the work as unbecoming of a clergyman, taking issue with its obscenity or immorality.
” Building on the success of ‘Tristram Shandy’, when he published a collection of sermons in May 1760 under the title ‘Mr. Yorick’s Sermons’—borrowing the name of the Shandy family’s parish priest—he was criticized for the inappropriateness of presenting the skull-like protagonist of ‘Hamlet’ and the court jester as the author. In the work, Tristram often appears wearing a jester’s cap with bells, and and although the narrator’s profession is not explicitly stated, the description in Book VII of a “pale-faced man dressed in black” entering Paris suggests that he, like the author Sterne, is a clergyman. Furthermore, the fact that Sterne sometimes signed his letters with the names Tristram or Yorick instead of his own suggests that he identified himself with the characters in the work.
In other words, Sterne wrote the work by presenting a seemingly contradictory and absurd identity: that of a clergyman dressed in colorful jester’s attire. Readers who believe that the two professions—clergyman and jester—can coexist harmoniously without conflict will likely enjoy and praise this work.
With the widespread adoption of deconstructionist and postmodernist critical trends in the latter half of the 20th century, ‘Tristram Shandy’ has often been regarded as a postmodern work that predated the movement by 200 years. Readers interested in the process of deconstructing existing value systems to reveal the artificiality of the hierarchies they conceal will recognize that Sterne’s clowning is not mere frivolity but a serious endeavor. Now, by examining the meaning underpinning his playfulness, we can consider several approaches to reading this work, which has earned a reputation as a “perplexing enigma.”
Distancing oneself from the spirit of the Enlightenment is one important approach. The 18th century is often referred to as the Age of Enlightenment—an era of awakening through reason. In the binary opposition of light and darkness, light symbolizes things useful to humanity, such as reason, knowledge, goodness, and life, while darkness represents instincts, ignorance, evil, and death—things to be avoided. This civilization-oriented perspective seeks a society where darkness is pushed aside and light reigns supreme.
Sterne’s work is intended to tempt precisely those intellectuals, biased toward such “light,” to acknowledge that darkness has a place of its own. If this binary opposition is a framework that forces one to choose one side or the other, the jester Stern reminds us that light and darkness cannot be separated from one another. In ‘Tristram Shandy’, he designates the moon—which shines only in the darkness—as his guardian. For example, in Book 1, Chapter 9, while auctioning off a dedication, he declares, “The Moon is a goddess who, with greater power than any guardian or patroness I can conceive, will propel my book forward and make the whole world chase after it madly.”
Tristram particularly links the moon’s mutability to human illogical capriciousness. As expressed in the line, “As the moon’s appearance changes—and sometimes according to my own whims—I might play the fiddle or sketch a picture,” this tendency to surrender to the moon’s influence also emerges as a key characteristic of Yorick, the narrator of “A Sentimental Journey.”
In “A Journey of the Senses,” Yorick describes how, early in the work, he eases the wariness typical of a traveler setting foot in a foreign land for the first time with a little wine, then opens his wallet and waves it in the air, feeling as though he could share its contents with anyone. However, the very moment Friar Francesco enters his room begging for alms, he feels no desire to give even a single penny. Explaining this bizarre whim, Yorick says that our moods, too, have ebbs and flows, and that it is difficult to explain their causes logically. He excuses it by attributing it to the influence of the moon—the force that affects the tides—and argues that if it were because he were in love with the moon (meaning he were mad), such capriciousness could not be a sin or a source of shame.
In this way, Stern restores the variability caused by the moon to an inescapable aspect of human nature. This variability, evident throughout the work, becomes even clearer when viewed against the backdrop of Newton’s explanations of natural phenomena and the 17th- and 18th-century intellectuals—such as John Locke—who emphasized regularity, mathematical precision, and consistency in their studies of human nature. Viewed in light of the optimistic outlook and belief in regularity prevalent during that era, Stern’s work can be read as an attempt to put the brakes on such rosy optimism and to shed new light on the irrational aspects of human nature—that is, the dark yet healthy potential—that the Enlightenment sought to suppress or cast into darkness.
Recall the passage where Tristram describes his father, Walter, as a “slave to extreme regularity,” and complains that, as a result, his mother had a bizarre association at the very moment of his conception, shattering his father’s vitality and dooming him to an unfortunate life. Furthermore, recall the description of Yorick as “composed of an infinitely variable and sublimated combination of matter—and his behavior, too, is so irregular that it frequently deviates from the norm or constitutes an exception.” This suggests the significance of the moon’s mutability—that is, human irregularity—in this work.
Finally, let us reflect on a sentence from Volume 2 of ‘A Journey of the Sentiments’. Yorick states that human nature reveals its true self in dark alleyways. He says, “A person who fears or considers it shameful to walk down a dark alley may be an exceptionally good person and suitable for many things. However, such a person cannot be the stuff of a great traveler of the sentiments. “I do not attach much importance to what happens on the main street in broad daylight. Human nature is shy and dislikes acting in front of onlookers. However, in some corner where no one is watching, even in a single scene created by human nature in a brief moment, one can witness as many and varied emotional reactions as those found in a combination of twelve French plays,” he wrote.
Yorick emphasizes the difference between the self we present to others on a main street in broad daylight and the self that is revealed in a dark, deserted alleyway, noting that he often draws on the latter as material when writing sermons. Just as his sermons guide parishioners toward self-reflection by drawing on the latter—which more honestly reveals the inner self hidden in the shadows—his novels are also focused on portraying the genuine human condition, stripped of pretense.
One of the methods Mr. Tristram chooses to depict the true nature of gentlemen is to approach them through their hobby-horses. As Tristram points out, our minds are not visible from the outside; they are wrapped in a “dark covering of flesh and blood that has not been transformed into crystal,” and the human chest is not fitted with the glass window demanded by Momus, the god of criticism. Tristram laments the writer’s struggle to accurately depict such inner human realities; after listing various absurd methods for uncovering human nature, he declares that he will accomplish this task through the hobby-horse.
For Stern, the hobbyhorse—a toy played with by carefree children—serves as an outlet for the relatively pure desires that humans seek in a society dominated by the imperative to conceal or suppress such desires. The most significant hobbyhorse in the work is the mock war game Uncle Toby stages on the lawn bowling green, but the most absurd hobbyhorse belongs to “the great Dr. Kunastrokius.” This doctor is described as a man who “derives indescribable pleasure from combing a donkey’s tail hair in his spare time” and who, despite having tweezers in his pocket, plucks dead hairs with his teeth. Named with a portmanteau containing explicit sexual innuendo, this doctor makes playing with a donkey—which is used as a synonym for sexual desire in the work—his pastime.
However, Stern does not recount this story merely to criticize those who must seek out a hobby. He poses the question, “If someone is quietly and peacefully riding his hobby down the street, and so long as he doesn’t force you or me to ride behind him—sir, what on earth does that have to do with us?” He then asserts, “One cannot argue against a hobby.” Interestingly, in the story, stilts are necessary only for gentlemen who are required to control their instincts.
Stilts exist in a realm where criteria such as how useful, just, or honorable an activity is to society or the individual cannot be applied—but precisely for that reason, they become an indispensable source of vitality for those who must reject pleasure as immoral. From Sturn’s perspective, the “stick horse” is a vital conduit for securing vitality and pure joy in a life marked by hardship, failure, and frustration.
Sturn asks the solemn and serious adults of his time—those wearing large wigs and false beards who demand that life be navigated in a straight line, focusing solely on the destination and taking the shortest route— “Don’t even they, at times, need a ‘childhood friend’ to guide them down this winding path of deviation?” he asks. Presenting the footsteps of his own narrative through drawings, he traces a trajectory adorned with countless curves of deviation, then borrows Mr. Seupja’s ruler to draw a straight line, drawing attention to the phenomenon that the world favors that straight line.
Clergymen call this straight line “the path a Christian must walk”; others call it “a symbol of moral integrity”; and still others call it “the highest good.” From the perspectives of utilitarianism, the Puritan work ethic, or rationalism, such a linear life could be the best life possible; and if life is a means to an end, then a linear life may indeed be the most desirable way to live.
If we design the affairs of the world based on the premise of human and social perfectibility—another major theme of the 18th century—the hypothesis that a straight-line trajectory of life is the most efficient choice gains credibility. However, Stern asks whether the pinnacle of perfection must truly be our goal. He suggests that if the day ever comes when all disciplines reach the pinnacle of perfection, the need for all writing and reading would vanish, knowledge would disappear, and we would find ourselves back at the starting point. In other words, even if human history appears to be an upward evolution from the lowest point to the highest pinnacle, that pinnacle is connected to the starting point, meaning that the trajectory of history could ultimately become circular. If so, is there really any need to become ensnared in a development-at-all-costs mentality—one that insists on taking a straight path and rushing toward the pinnacle—and thereby turn a blind eye to the small irregularities and the joy of deviation that life offers?
Among the characters in ‘Tristram Shandy’, Walter Shandy is the one who embodies this aspect most prominently. He makes it his life’s work to raise his son to be as outstanding a figure as the great Trismegistus, devoting himself to formulating theories and hypotheses, constructing systems, and passionately defending the hypotheses he has devised. ‘ Walter, described as ‘a man who would move heaven and earth and twist and torture everything in nature to support his own hypotheses,’ sees his systematic efforts constantly thwarted and reduced to the victim of chance.
For example, the name “Tristram” itself is said to have been given by mistake—the baptismal name intended by his father was miscommunicated due to a maid’s error—and it is said to have been chosen in the throes of childbirth. Walter, in his obsession with the scientific management of the birthing process, even suffered the misfortune of having the child’s nose crushed by forceps. These examples demonstrate that his system is always brought down by chance and failure.
Tristram has repeatedly declared that he will follow no rules, making narrative choices based on momentary impulses. His defining characteristic is that he is an anomalous figure who rejects regularity, system, theory, law, uniformity, and consistency. He draws his vitality from flexibility and resilience. If his father represents a serious, systematic logic that seeks to uphold a hypothesis even by “twisting and torturing everything in nature,” Tristram is an anti-systemic jester who, dressed as a clown and making a laughingstock of himself, deconstructs all hypotheses, expands the space for flexibility, and prioritizes respect for the natural order.
While Stern is so modern that he could almost be called a postmodern writer, one point we often overlook is that the spirit of comedy he inherits has a very long history. The quote from Epictetus that Stern adopted as the title of his work—“It is not things themselves that trouble people, but people’s thoughts about things”—concise yet powerfully reveals the central theme running through his work.
In the context of Stoic philosophy, Epictetus argued that we suffer not because of death itself, but because of our thoughts about death. He viewed philosophy not as theoretical knowledge but as a discipline that teaches how to live, and he taught that suffering arises when we try to control the uncontrollable or neglect what we can control. While Walter struggles to control his son’s life, he has neglected a hinge—which could be fixed with a single drop of oil, a brush, and a hammer—for ten years. As a result, the living room door creaks every time it opens, preventing him from enjoying a proper nap and causing him great distress; this exemplifies the very type of person Epictetus warned against. Tristram pours out pity and lamentation over his father’s behavior.

The Comic Spirit of Tristram Shandy

── O soul of man, full of contradictions! ─ To suffer so much because of wounds that could so easily be healed! —His entire life stands in contradiction to his knowledge!—His reason, that precious gift from God, —(instead of pouring a drop of oil on it) is used solely to sharpen his sensibilities, —and thus only serves to multiply his suffering, make him even more melancholy, and render him even more uncomfortable!—Poor, wretched creature, to be forced to live like that! ── As if there were not enough inevitable causes of unhappiness in reality, must he so voluntarily fill his storehouse of sorrow? ─ While fighting against unavoidable disasters, must he live in such submission to those disasters that could be permanently eliminated with just a tenth of the effort required to address the discomfort they cause?
─ Book III, Chapter 21
Tristram often uses trivial matters as a starting point to point out universal human folly; here, through his father, he satirizes the phenomenon of humans “multiplying their own suffering” and “voluntarily filling the storehouse of sorrow.”
What is noteworthy here is that the suffering Walter creates for himself stems—just like the Enlightenment spirit—from an obsession with making his descendants great, that is, from what Epictetus calls “opinion.” Sterne’s comic spirit begins precisely with the deconstruction of this “opinion” that measures human superiority. From the dedications in Books 1 and 2, Sterne dismantled the hierarchy between “great” and “good” people. In his dedication to William Pitt, the Secretary of State—who was known at the time as the “Great Commoner”—Sterne first addressed Pitt as “Your Greatness,” but then, under the premise of “if I may use a title more honorable to you,” corrected himself to “Your Goodness.” And when he dedicates the final, ninth volume to Pitt once again, he emphasizes that Lord Pitt—now Prime Minister and the Earl of Chatham—is neither better nor worse than the commoner Pitt he once knew. This is because honors such as status or noble titles are “like the images engraved on coins, which circulate in that region as mere pieces of worthless metal.” In other words, Pitt’s value lies not in his position but in his very person.

Rabelais, Burton, and the Grotesque Tradition

While one might trace the continuity of his comic spirit all the way back to the ancient Greek comic playwright Aristophanes, Rabelais and Cervantes stand out as the precursors who exerted the most direct influence. Rabelais (1494–1553), an outstanding French comic writer and Renaissance humanist, played a particularly important role at the very moment when Sterne was embarking on his career as a novelist. Having gone through the bitter experience of having his “political romance” burned, Sterne appears to have written a short piece titled “A Fragment in the Manner of Rabelais” .”
Written in a highly amusing and self-assured Rabelaisian style, this piece deconstructs the concept of plagiarism while bringing down to earth values such as the sublime, the spiritual, the great, and the wholeness of the individual. Bearing in mind that ‘Tristram Shandy’ is replete with quotations, borrowings, and plagiarism, Sterne apparently needed a sort of purifying ritual to free himself from self-consciousness about the author or “authority” before beginning his work, and it seems he accomplished this through this piece.
As seen in Joseph Addison’s essay, where the fictional character Roger de Cobley instructs the parish minister of his estate to use only the verified sermons of renowned clergymen, it appears that plagiarizing others’ sermons was a common practice among ministers in the religious community at the time. The second chapter of “Rabelaisian Fragments” depicts Homenas (meaning “sermon writer”) diligently copying Samuel Clarke’s sermon for use at the following Sunday service. However, this section must be read against the backdrop of the absurd dialogue between the five Rabelaisian characters introduced in Chapter 1. The topic of their conversation is Kerukopaedia—that is, “the art of creating all manner of enemies: theological, Sunday-school, pulpit-related, tedious, or whatever else you care to call them.”
By embellishing the term “the art of sermon-writing” with pedantic bombast, Stern undermines the lofty seriousness of the task. The main speaker in this dialogue, Lablaicus, is introduced as “one of the greatest critics in the Western world and a friend as Rabelaisian as anyone who has ever wet himself.” In other words, he is a figure in whom greatness and universal vulgarity are bound together. The dialogue is directly and indirectly peppered with vocabulary related to the functions of the human lower regions—terms frequently found in Rabelais’s works— —terms commonly avoided in respectable settings—are directly or indirectly scattered throughout this dialogue. Its core purpose is to gather all the scattered rules regarding Kerucopedia into a single code, thoroughly digest the whole to create an institutional framework, and then distribute it to all licensed ministers throughout England and Ireland.
In Rabelais’s logic, what and how one preaches takes precedence over who wrote it, and the system he proposes would also eliminate disputes over original sources or originality, as well as competition to determine superiority. In other words, it is a system that cuts off the root cause of the author’s self-conscious anxiety.
Among the works that Sterne borrowed without citing the source in ‘Tristram Shandy’, the one that likely occupies the largest proportion is Robert Burton’s ‘The Anatomy of Melancholy’ (1621). For example, Chapter 1 of Book 5 depicts a scene in which the narrator throws the key to his study into the depths of a well and vows never to borrow from others’ writings again; even in this very passage, he borrows Burton’s expression, which wittily illustrates the impossibility of originality in writing new works.
Burton, who possessed encyclopedic knowledge of the classics, argues in the preface to ‘The Anatomy of Melancholy’ that there are no new ideas in the world and that, although he is a thief who steals from others, he is a dwarf standing on the shoulders of giants and can therefore see better. He also lists the countless people—names that are unfamiliar to modern readers—who have made similar arguments regarding any given proposition; by doing so, Burton emphasizes continuity with countless predecessors while undermining the authority of objectivity in determining plagiarism. Stern’s act of plagiarizing Burton while rejecting the urge to plagiarize can be seen as a gesture that turns the very concept of plagiarism into a comedy.
Plagiarism is considered a crime because it violates the spirit of ensuring fairness in the grades of recognition assigned to each individual through objective evaluation, as well as in the spiritual and material rewards bestowed upon them. However, Stern’s comic spirit pursues the possibility of celebrating the continuity of existence, which precedes the need for such individualization.
While discussing Rabelais’s carnival spirit, Bakhtin introduced the concept of a festival of the “mighty whole.” Bakhtin designates Rabelaisian writing—which celebrates the continuity of existence within this mighty whole—as the grotesque genre, because in Rabelais’s festival, all the grotesque aspects of down-to-earth human life are embraced and become the subject of joyful laughter.
Rabelais’s literature is rooted in the folk culture of Renaissance agrarian society, which directly challenges the power of official culture that defines the grotesque as “unnatural and distorted.” The laughter generated by Rabelais’s comedy—in which the grotesque is celebrated as a natural aspect of humanity—is not laughter that criticizes or mocks any specific individual, but rather a collective burst of roars of laughter at the comedy inherent in the universal human condition.
Bakhtin noted that this delightful folk grotesque genre lost its power after the 17th century as the Romantic desire for definitive individuality spread, and laughter shifted to target the individual; he identified Sterne as the founder of the Romantic grotesque genre, which reflects this change. According to Bakhtin, the “Romantic Grotesque”—which fuses 19th-century Romanticism with the Renaissance genre of grotesque comedy—is a form of literature that expresses a subjective worldview while preserving the memory and traces of the grotesque genre’s powerful celebration of totality; he noted that this memory is revealed vividly, powerfully, profoundly, and delightfully, particularly in the works of Sterne and Hoffmann.
The reason I pointed out above that the “Rabelaisian fragments” serve as a kind of ritual of self-purification is that I believe Sterne was not free from the Romantic desire to have the firmness, reality, and superiority of the self recognized. ‘Tristram Shandy’ chronicles the narrator’s journey as he recalls a celebration of formidable wholeness, distances himself from a society in which such celebrations are fading away, and hosts a private carnival in his study.

The Complementarity of the Romantic and the Grotesque

The encounter between the romantic and grotesque elements in ‘Tristram Shandy’ demonstrates that these two are not merely opposing forces but can act in a complementary manner. Sterne’s penchant for the grotesque not only gives substance to his romantic desires but also serves to control and moderate them.
Tristram examines his self-conscious desires through the mirror of the grotesque, and as he describes his comical reflection to the reader, he bursts into laughter alongside them. This process affirms the universality of the Romantic desire to establish self-identity and demonstrates how that desire can be moderated within the framework of mutual recognition with the other.
The moment the fragmented, fluid, and indeterminate nature of the self—along with the limitations of the human body—emerges in the mirror, the fundamental affinity between the hero and the anti-hero is revealed. Tristram’s invitation to the reader to enter into close fellowship is, in essence, an invitation to the small carnival unfolding within his own mind.
While unilateral recognition arising from vertical relationships devalues the recognition of the subordinate, in a relationship of communion, the differences between the self and the other enhance the joy of the relationship and enable horizontal mutual recognition of those differences. The differences in temperament and taste between Walter and Toby, as well as the hierarchical difference between Toby and his servant Trim, function not as sources of conflict but as elements that make their communion interesting and delightful.
Stern’s romantic-grotesque writing joyfully embraces the inevitable interdependence among humans living finite lives and presents the paradox that freedom of the self is possible precisely when one willingly accepts the bonds of imperfection shared by humans across the past, present, and future.

Laughter, the Spirit of Comedy, and Influence on 20th-Century Literature

Stern is recognized as a writer who greatly influenced numerous 20th-century authors, including James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett, Salman Rushdie, Thomas Pynchon, and Thomas Mann. Characteristics such as the multilayered nature of temporal phenomena, constant experimentation with technique, a keen eye for observing human reality without illusion, and skepticism toward institutions and theories inspired later writers.
However, the comic element—that is, the laughter and spirit of comedy—that Stern sought to vividly recall and recreate through Rabelaisian grotesque seems to have lost much of its power among later writers. While there are writers who deal with the fragmented self, such as Kafka, Faulkner, and Borges, the delight in that fragmented self—rooted in the folk culture of agrarian society—has vanished.
In his foreword to the Penguin edition of ‘Tristram Shandy’, Christopher Ricks observed that, unlike what Samuel Beckett called “the toxic originality of time within the science of suffering,” Sterne possessed an originality that treated time with flair within the science of play. While 20th-century avant-garde writers perceived time through a somber and melancholic lens, the 18th-century avant-garde comic writer viewed time as a force that creates mystery and enigma—and as an “other” to be respected and lived alongside.
Throughout the work, Sterne revels in time and play. Uncle Toby, for instance, steps out of the flow of time—as if pausing it by puffing on his pipe—only to return; he even resurrects Yorick, who had already died in Book I, and takes him along to the very end; and during his travels through Europe, he revives memories of past journeys, revealing a complexly intertwined triple timeline.
However, in Book 9, unlike the first half—written as an unknown author—his self-awareness as an already famous writer is strongly evident, revealing a perception of time that approaches that of Beckett. Sterne exclaims: “Why should this book be any less worthy than works like ‘The Tale of the Tub’ or ‘The Oracles of Moses’, that it cannot flow alongside them down the stream of time?” Thus, he painfully depicts humanity’s powerlessness in the face of time.
One such scene can be seen as a passage in which Stern speaks directly. He confesses how quickly time is passing and that every single letter he writes reveals the fierce speed of life. To quote:
“Time is flowing by at such a rapid pace, and every single letter I write tells me just how fiercely life is chasing after my pen. Each day, each hour of that life—oh, my beloved Jenny!—is more precious than the ruby necklace around your neck, yet it flies away over my head like a light cloud on a windy day, never to return—everything is hurrying along—even at this very moment as you twirl your hair—look! Your hair is turning gray. Those moments when you kiss my hand in farewell, and the times of separation that follow—are they not all a prelude to the eternal parting we are soon to face? — — O Heaven, have mercy on us both!”
What is noteworthy about this quotation is that Stern does not view time as an enemy. Faced with the absolute power of time, which he cannot control, he instead arrives at a humble, religious realization that “each day, each hour” is precious. Unlike the attitude of Beckett’s characters, who waste time waiting for a Godot that never comes, Tristram feels sorrow at the truth that time, once flown by, will never return, yet he cherishes even that sorrow as a precious part of life.
Chapter 9, which follows, concludes the work’s unique tone with a single sentence that exudes a grotesque defiance: no matter how the world views this cry, he could not care less.

The Healing Power and Modern Significance of Shandyism

Stone’s comic spirit—that is, Shandyism—holds a powerful appeal precisely because life is imperfect and uncontrollable. To borrow Tristram’s words, human life is always shifting “from one sorrow to another,” and possesses the nature such that “when one source of suffering is sealed off! —the door to another suffering opens.”
Sturn refers to the therapeutic nature of his work as “Shandyism” and defines its efficacy as follows. He states that Shandyism opens the heart and lungs wide, facilitating the flow essential to life and ensuring that the wheel of life turns pleasantly for a long time.
Furthermore, when asked what his enemy is, Sturn answers that it is “spleen.” As Tristram observes, irritable and gloomy emotions have a detrimental effect not only on an individual’s physiology but also on the “political body.” Today, as we enjoy the benefits of civilization while conflict, confrontation, hatred, and dogmatism arise under the pretext of pursuing an ideal society, the healing methods of Shandyism sometimes feel desperately needed.
We live in an age dominated by light, yet we find ourselves in a situation that demands a life-centered perspective—one that is so crucial it compels us to worry about the ecological crisis. It is now necessary to reexamine the remedy proposed by Shandyism from the perspective of life-centered thinking.

The Story of the Bull and the Rooster: Stern’s Ecology/Life-Centered Approach

Having lived with the shadow of death due to a lung disease since his college days, Stern—though the founder of Shandyism, which “keeps the wheel of life turning pleasantly for a long time”—was also someone who loved imperfect lives and finite existence more than anyone else. While the opening scene of ‘Tristram Shandy’ depicts the moment of conception, the final scene tells the story of a bull whose fertility is in doubt. The work concludes with Yorick’s commentary that this is one of the finest tales among the “Stories of the Bull and the Rooster.”
In the English-speaking world, the phrase “the tale of the bull and the cock” is sometimes used to refer to a preposterous or absurd story; it is also the title of a fable poem by Christopher Smart from 1756. Research suggests it is highly likely that this was a phrase frequently exchanged in jest among Sterne and his colleagues. While “bull” and “cock” refer to a bull and a rooster, respectively—and are animals often used as sexual metaphors—Smart’s story takes on a serious tone, unlike the proverbial meaning.
In Smart’s poem, an aging bull, whose fertility has waned, laments his fate as he is led to the market to be slaughtered. Meanwhile, the rooster—who serves as both a timekeeper and a guard—returns, exhausted, and upon seeing his companion’s anguish, forgets his own wounds and pours out cries of encouragement and comfort. This scene is particularly intriguing as it reveals the perspective of God’s creatures as they view their oppressor, humanity.

A Contemplation of the Affinity Between Animals and Humans

Rise up, my neighbor, shake off that sorrow-filled heart—you, the brave one who bears witness to the vile ingratitude of humans. Let us together mock that monster, who cruelly abuses reason, with our claws and horns… . It seems as though the words “Everything will gradually get better” are echoing down from heaven.
Humans who revel in blood, who are vile and depraved, who stray from the Creator’s plan, who abuse nature and its creatures. If they continue to exploit their fellow servants in this way, the day will come when they themselves will desperately crave the very mercy they once refused to grant. The day their hearts and consciences are purified. He will come to long to become the very beast he once cursed.
In the eyes of the rooster, who views humans as fellow creatures, humans—who overestimate their superiority based on reason—are cruel destroyers who defy the order of nature.
In Book 9 of ‘Tristram Shandy’, a passage that particularly highlights the similarity between humans and animals stands out. Tormented by writer’s block and feeling as though his pen weighs a thousand pounds, Tristram leaves Chapters 18 and 19 as blank pages and even performs a séance to summon the “spirit of sweet humor” that once guided the fluid pen of his beloved Cervantes.
In this invocation ritual described in Chapter 24, the person Tristram summons from his memory is Maria, whom he met during his travels in France. Maria, a beautiful maiden who lost her mind after experiencing a betrayal in love, wanders about playing the flute and befriending a goat. As Maria repeatedly glances back and forth between the goat and Tristram, Tristram asks Maria, “What resemblance have you found? ” and then asks the reader to believe that he posed this question out of “the most humble conviction that humans are, after all, nothing but beasts.”
In Greek mythology, the satyr—a forest deity with the body of a goat and the head of a man—is a god who enjoys playing the flute and is a companion of Dionysus, the god of grapes and wine. Furthermore, the festivals of Dionysus, attended by satyrs, are occasions where the boundaries between living beings dissolve, allowing everyone to experience oneness. Given that Tristram recognizes humans as merely another kind of beast, we can interpret the appearance of the mad Maria—who has lost her reason—along with her flute and the goat as devices that evoke the festivals of Dionysus.
This scene of the soul-summoning ritual concludes with the enigmatic line, “Ah, what a splendid place that inn at Moulin was!” If we interpret this enigma against the backdrop of Book 7, Chapter 12—where Tristram expressed his desire to meet his end not in his own home but in an inn filled with strangers, and then declared that even if there were no other inns in the entire world, this inn in Avvil could never be such a place— we can see that Tristram’s séance ultimately concludes with him humbly accepting even death.
Subsequently, Chapter 25 naturally depicts Tristram, having regained his spirit and vigor, becoming detached from the world’s opinions and bursting with confidence to rewrite Chapters 18 and 19, which he had left blank. This passage effectively illustrates, in condensed form, the process of restoring the self’s freedom through humble self-awareness, as discussed in the section on the “Romantic Grotesque.”

Sexuality and the Ethics of Benevolence

However, the greatest obstacle for those who wish to define humans as a superior species distinct from the animal kingdom is human sexuality. Walter, who reduces his marital relations with his wife to a mere household chore to be performed only on the first Sunday night of every month, is the very epitome of such a person. He not only distinguishes between rational love and natural love but also despises the latter.
He is also someone who holds his bull in very high regard because it approaches its “sexual encounters” with the village cows with a “solemn face.” The reason Uncle Toby was unable to form a relationship with the widow Mrs. Wardman was that Walter, who demonizes sex, dismissed her sexual interest as mere lust, and insisted that “every calamity or disorder of any kind or nature existing in this world, from the Fall of Adam to my uncle’s case (inclusive), is in some way connected to that uncontrollable desire.”
In the final chapter of this work, Walter’s lament acknowledges that “even beings as great, noble, and godlike as humans require certain measures to preserve their species,” yet he cannot fathom why “we were made to crawl out of caves and hiding places like four-legged beasts or satyrs rather than as human beings.”
However, Sterne—an author who was repeatedly criticized as a pastor who wrote obscene works—was the one who put forward the argument, which was highly groundbreaking for its time, that sexuality and a compassionate heart stem from the same root. Thornton had first published one of his sermons in print in 1747, 13 years before his collection of sermons was released. This sermon, titled “The Story of Elijah and the Widow of Zarephath” and subtitled “A Charity Sermon,” contains a passage that assigns moral significance to this very animalistic love.
He argued that “a tendency to be reluctant to do good or to shy away from it often appears in people who have problems not only on the rational level but also on the animal level.” He asserted that a person with “a great and good soul that constantly desires to show mercy to the unfortunate” must perform “the very physical movement that sustains life” more freely and vigorously, whereas he states that “a person with a petty and shriveled heart, whose heart never melts in the face of anyone’s suffering, who is so absorbed in their own concerns that they cannot see or feel anything beyond the self, and who cannot enjoy anything beyond themselves,” is someone who has little need for this animalistic activity known as sex.
This sermon also argues that “what clergymen speak of in terms of the mind (namely, compassion), biologists have observed in the body—namely, that there is no passion more natural to the body than love. And this love is the principle of doing good.” In other words, it asserts that not only spiritual love but also love expressed through the body is a principle of doing good.
In the 18th century, when religious discourse that demonized sexual desire and the body was dominant, Stern had already recognized the correlation between Eros and ethics discussed by 20th-century philosophers; not only did he preach about this in church, but he also wrote a novel that intensely mocked intellectuals like Walter, who were mired in prejudice against Eros.
Stern’s idea that Eros helps activate love and compassion for other living beings beyond the self—and that there is no need to divide love into rational and natural love, since one kind of love is sufficient for the world—is expressed in the work through Toby, Yorick, and Elizabeth, who embody this stance (Volume 8, Chapter 33). Love between a man and a woman and love for a neighbor in need are the same kind of love; both are abilities bestowed upon us by nature or by God—the ability to live alongside others.

Chandism as Healing and a Means of Communication

If we interpret the phrase “The Tale of the Ox and the Cock,” which concludes the work, in its general sense—as a preposterous tale—we might view it as referring to the anti-Eros discourse Walter unfolds immediately preceding it. However, if we interpret this phrase as the title of Smart’s poem, we can take it to imply that the entire work speaks from the rooster’s perspective.
In other words, the rooster criticizes humans who have become endlessly arrogant by relying on reason; humans who violate the laws of nature and oppress and abuse their bodies, instincts, and other living beings; humans who demonize sexuality or distort it into a solemn duty, thereby losing their vitality and becoming victims of sexual impotence; and humans who condemn imperfect beings by measuring them against a standard of perfection. One could interpret this work as the rooster’s cry urging such humans to embrace compassion, love, inclusion, and a sense of fellowship toward such humans.
In this work, the bull is not the only one suspected of sexual impotence. Passages suggesting that Tristram—born after only eight months—might not be Walter’s son appear throughout the work; Tristram himself, who suffered a genital injury in childhood, is shown failing at sexual intercourse; and Toby, who sustained a groin injury, is not physically impotent but is mistaken for being so, ultimately ending his life without ever knowing a woman. Consequently, the Shandy family now faces the crisis of its lineage coming to an end.
However, Shandyism—the remedy Stern proposes in response to this crisis—is a mindset that breaks free from a “short-tempered and gloomy” disposition hostile toward others, fostering smooth communication and embracing differences with goodwill.
It is no coincidence that readers develop a fondness for nearly every character in this work.

We can even view Walter—who embodies the very aspects Stern seeks to critique—with affection. By frequently emphasizing that Walter is a generous man who readily admits his mistakes, Stern shifts the focus from Walter himself to his prejudices, thereby guiding the reader to feel compassion for his repeated failures and frustrations.
For Stern, the crucial channel of communication is not the head or the logos—that is, language—but the heart. Misunderstandings frequently arise between Walter and Toby—who have different interests—due to the ambiguity inherent in language. However, within the framework of mutual trust they share, these misunderstandings become a source of humor and vitality.
“A slow, low, thirsty conversation—a conversation about five semitones lower than the natural pitch, with a shimmering, luminous ‘pupillary’ ,” Tristram says that while his mind cannot grasp the meaning of this strange expression by Slokenbergius, he understands it through the resonance of a stringed instrument within his heart. Yorick, tearing up the sermons he has written to hand them out as kindling, says he is ashamed because they came from his head rather than his heart.
Sturn employs a variety of devices to communicate with the reader through the heart. These include black pages mourning Yorick’s death; pages featuring marble patterns presented as “the colorful symbols of my work”; blank pages offered for readers to draw their own image of the charming Mrs. Wordman rather than providing a description; the symbol “☞” to emphasize a point of attention; a long spiral illustration in which Trim wields his cane to depict the freedom of bachelorhood, and a combination of straight lines and curves illustrating the narrative’s journey—the visual elements are diverse. Yet when awkward or embarrassing situations arise, he even mimics the sound of music—a borderless auditory signifier—rather than relying on language.
Accepting Tristram’s challenge—which presents a page with a marble pattern and asks readers to infer the lesson behind its symbolism—I, as a reader who wishes to connect with Stern on a heartfelt level, offer my own answer to this riddle. Based on the fact that Stern hand-printed these pages one by one when publishing the first editions of Volumes 3 and 4—resulting in unique patterns for each book—I believe these abstract-like pages symbolize the amorphous nature and originality of individual lives, embodying Stern’s desire to celebrate the lives of all of us, each destined differently.
It is a pity that we, who benefit from mass production, cannot see the beautiful colors of that page or receive an illustration unique to our own copy along with the book. However, if more readers take to heart the lesson of this book—as Stern proclaimed: “Let everyone write their own story in their own way”—and learn from his wisdom to stop imitating the desires of others and instead respect their own unique lives, perhaps the pace at which consumerist superiority, the cult of competition and victory, or development-oriented idealism, or uniform totalitarianism—which are sickening the Earth and all life—might perhaps be slowed down just a little.
This essay focuses on Stern’s view of humanity from the perspective of modern readers struggling with a crisis of values, and it is regrettable that, due to space limitations, I was unable to cover the full scope of Stern’s comic narrative techniques.