What a wonderfully imperfect and charming book. Tristram Shandy is about life in all its digressive, shapeless, chaotic glory. There's little to say beyond the fact that its lack of a clear narrative structure mirrors how life really unfolds. Life only coheres into some sort of recognisable, forward-moving experience with the benefit of hindsight. The messiness of Tristram's story is an analogue for the messiness of our own.