This book is wonderfully overblown, rambling and self-conscious. Jacques and his master wander France trying to tell one another the stories of their loves, all the whilst constantly being interrupted by an unnamed narrator who is themselves harangued by the reader. The pair of them are very funny and all-knowing, and the depth and breadth of reading behind this creation quite surprising. Ranging from the incredibly popular Don Quixote to the shitpost pre-cursor The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, I feel there are plenty of knowing winks left in this book that sailed straight over my head - but since this doesn't detract from the simple joy of Jacques's delivery of his meandering tale, this is not a problem.