Tristram Shandy
The Meandering Mind That Invented Itself
Digress, dear friend! The tale's the thing.
Born at the wrong moment (mine), raised in the shadow of my father’s theories, and cursed—or blessed—with a mind that wanders like a sheep in an open field. I pen my life not as it happened, for who could claim such a thing, but as it meanders through the corridors of memory, misadventure, and parenthesis. The plot? Ah, but that's always just ahead—round the next bend, behind a misplaced quill.
What I'm Into: nosewheels, cocked hats, Yorick’s skull, Uncle Toby’s fortifications, the art of missing the point
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