Why Wodehouse?

Why Wodehouse?  It is not a bad question. Not quite a great one, but not bad though perhaps predictably inevitable.  Sometimes, I can see it lurking behind the eyes of some people when I tell them what I am doing.  Though a large part of the feeling can perhaps be attributed to my paranoia, it does linger in the air.  Occasionally, I can feel them almost ask why, and then they pull back, as though they are afraid that the answer will disturb them even more than the thought of me reading a twentieth century British humorist rather than something improving.

But it is improving, especially now.  I find myself in the odd position of being five months into motherhood and seven months into a divorce (yes, the math is correct; I had an unusually dramatic third trimester).  Extreme joy and despair have been my bedfellows throughout, and, frankly, it can be exhausting and tedious being me.  I am able to be a much better mother, daughter, colleague, etc. if I am able to check out every once in a while and roam along some idyllic English summertime that never existed.  Serious books would only have me empathize with the trauma and I would probably have to be scraped off the floor of the commuter rail every morning, wracked with woe.  

Additionally, there is a literary importance to humor that I think is under recognized.  I recently read The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy.  The introduction by Terry Teachout makes an interesting observation that the British are better with the legacies of their comic authors.  He cites a Constant Lambert quotation that “seriousness is not the same as solemnity.”  There is almost a reverence that Wodehouse has when it comes to his stories.  Certainly, all of his plots have their Ludicrous turns; it is expected, he knows it and I, the reader, know it.  Although I know that everything will turn out all right in the end, I hang on, wanting to see what he does with language, the twists he will make getting from A to B.  It is the journey that is important, something that I keep reminding myself on a daily basis.

Besides, who else would I read with the same output?  Dickens?  Dear God no, talk about misery.  I would probably be in the nearest loony bin if I had to read about people stuck in the poorhouse or the death of some darling little child.  Agatha Christie?  Now, that one is interesting, but I read a lot of her when I was a teenager, and I wanted to come mostly new to an author.  Shakespeare?  Same as Dame Agatha, although I am meaning to read the plays that I have not gotten around to yet.  So here I am with Wodehouse, who adds a much-needed dash of light into my sometimes dark days.