The Common Genius of Wodehouse and Sedaris ~or~ Louder and Funnier*

A couple of years ago, I resumed the habit of subscribing to The New Yorker.  This is a dangerous addiction, replete with maddening consequences, that I have fallen prey to over the decades. Those in-depth pieces can be quite challenging to read whilst caring for a family of four humans and two felines.  If it was a monthly, this would be an easy feat, but those issues appear, almost taunting the subscriber, on a near-weekly basis.  They banish any smug feelings that you had upon reading, at last, the cartoon competition because you know that another issue will be lurking in the mailbox.  I read articles in snatches of time, mostly while brushing my teeth.  I used to be able to read while my son was watching the same episode of The Avengers for the 9,462^nd time, but my daughter is just about to walk, meaning that my husband and I spend quite a bit of our time hovering over her to ensure that she does not injure herself, our cats, and her brother’s toys (in that order, you’ll be pleased to know, although I suspect that my son would protest the fact that his belongings are relegated to third place). 

This week’s issue (well, it’s September 29 as I write this, so whichever week that is in the magazine world) features an essay by the incomparable David Sedaris.  One aspect of his writing that amazes me is his ability to take the mickey out of himself.  This is a quality that he has always possessed, and I always wondered how his success would change his ability to do so.  I read the beginning of his musings on the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage shortly before leaving the house.  While on the train, I began this month’s Wodehouse, which is a collection of essays that were originally published in various periodicals.** Oddly enough, I came across this passage: “The books which I write seem to appeal to a rather specialized public.  Invalids like me.  So do convicts.  And I am all right with the dog-stealers.”

A chord sounded, and I was reminded of an hour earlier when I, my mouth filled with Crest foam, read Mr. Sedaris’ description of himself as an aging, rumpled figure, picking up littler around his home in the countryside.  Of course, there are a lot of comics who rely on self-deprecation.  It’s a good way to gain audience sympathy, especially in first person narratives.  We all know that these two authors have made piles of cash with their writing, but there is a joy in knowing that they are not perfect.  It’s a nice conceit that has played through the decades nicely.  I am also struck by the wildly different subject matter; Sedaris and gay marriage and Wodehouse his literary public.  Something tells me that, in another hundred years or so, one of the major essayists of the 22^nd century will be poking fun about his or her ability to cope with something that we have yet to even imagine, using an old trope on a new issue. 

*Read October 2015.  Still have to catch up on August's book, I know.

**I think that I will be on a non-fiction Wodehouse kick this fall.  As I approach the final year of this project, I decided that I wanted the last book I read to be Sunset at Blandings, which means that I should get around to this group of books that I’ve been putting off.