Looking at the publication date of The Golden Bat reinforced the fact that Wodehouse was a product of the late Victorian/Edwardian age, albeit one who lived well beyond the demise of both monarchs. The man was publishing books in 1904, which is now well over a hundred years ago. This comes as a shock to me. I still consider Kurt Cobain’s death to be a recent event, and 9/11 happened only last week, didn’t it? Never mind that, when I was younger, it was not unusual to have veterans of World War I pottering about, and now they’re almost all on another field of battle.
I often wonder if Wodehouse thought that his books would still be published and read so long after they were written. He died in 1975, almost forty years ago, and, not only are all of his books still in print, but they bring out swanky new editions that are featured in au courant design magazines. Moreover, their humor still endures, which I find remarkable. Maybe in large part that is because there are not many pop culture references, which lends to the so-called timeless air of the novels and stories. I read Tina Fey’s memoirs a couple of weeks ago, and I find myself wondering if 30 Rock will still be considered funny in the next century. Fey’s humor relies a lot on witty observations of current situations, so I’m not convinced that it will endure. Who can say though. Maybe it will be like Shakespeare, and the episodes will come with long footnotes explaining the ironic use of language. Goodness knows, I’m a sucker for a good footnote.
I have almost no doubt that good old P.G. would be tickled pink knowing that his books are still read. Isn’t that what all writers and other artists dream of, that, not only will their work be shared during their lifetime, but will outlive them? One my favorite recent episodes of Dr. Who involved The Doctor taking Vincent Van Gogh into the present to show him that people considered him to be a master and appreciate his paintings. I always loose it when I see the touching last scene, as the incomparable Bill Nighy, playing an art historian, explains to Van Gogh the precise nature of his legacy (not knowing that he was speaking to the artist himself). To be fair, even the Van Gogh character cries, so it is a weep-fest on both sides of the screen. It is the base human need to share that still compels people to tell stories and express, having an audience.
I’ve been struggling with the need of having an audience recently. Over the past ten years, I have written a couple of novels and a pile of short stories that I have no doubt will languish in unpublished obscurity. At the moment, I am in the process of trying to determine if I should pack it in and give up on fiction writing or carry on. I go back and forth on the merits of writing for my own sake versus doing something more productive with my time. Part of my compromise was starting this blog, which, while not fiction, still keeps me writing, which I am determined to do regardless of the form it takes. Fortunately for the world at large, Wodehouse had success relatively early on in his writing career, meaning that he did not quit.
