Context: Was spending a relaxing day at Byron Bay, New South Wales when I started reading this.
Apparently there’s a movement in literature (and probably elsewhere in the arts) called sentimentalism. I read a bit about it and didn’t really understand it. I read this and didn’t really understand it either. Sterne is not known for this particular book being much better known for his Tristram Shandy novel which I’ve not read. If this is anything to go by, I’m not looking forward to that much.
Written on his deathbed, the novelist has one last foray into Europe on the picaresque bandwagon. Having read Peregrine Pickle, I’ve been here before and felt no great longing to return.
Granted, this was a bit more polished with the humour more wry and less slapstick. But there’s only so much one can get up to on these adventures. And, as I’ve said more than once before, satire is more for your peers than posterity.
The best part of the novel was the very last line, made even more skillful by the fact that it was his last published work. He died less than a month after it was completed.
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