Over Seventy ~or~ The Grumpy Fruitcake*

I’ll admit it: I was very grumpy when I read this book.  My family adores the holidays, and I spent a lot of the month writing cards, wrapping presents, tracking gifts nervously online, basting fruitcake, and coming to grips with a vintage family Christmas tree.**  The result was that, come mid-December, I was doing my best zombie impersonation.  Even though my delightful colleagues keep me awash in coffee, it was not enough for me to maintain a consistently sunny mood. 

This might go a long way to explain why I occasionally had to resist the urge to throw Over Seventy, which was basically Wodehouseian musings on the passage of time and other topics, across the room.  I have only thrown one book across the room, and that was a horrible treatise written about the Medieval period.  I won’t even stoop to mention its title.  While I had wanted to throw Atonement across the room when I finished it, I was on a train at the time and wanted to avoid arrest on assault charges (my aim is bad and I probably could have done some damage to an unsuspecting fellow passenger). 

The one thing that Over Seventy was good for was teaching me a very important fact about Plum’s writing.  Wodehouse desperately needs a plot to reign him in, because otherwise he drifts off on his flight of fancy, spinning an intricate web of witticisms that only frustrated me.  One could argue that there was the pretense of an imaginary questionnaire to provide a narrative anchor, but I would maintain that he needs some strong character and an aunt or two to really keep things moving along.  There will naturally be some who enjoy the webs, but I found that my reaction to them was akin to that of a trapped insect, thrashing about. 

Since I don’t want to be a complete negative Nancy about this, I will conclude with some unrelated observations, quotations, and other tid-bits from the book:

-On the low critical opinion of humorists: “When I tell you that in a recent issue of the New Yorker [sic] I was referred to as a ‘burbling pixie’, you will see how far the evil has spread” (p. 93).  Would that I had an occasion in life to make use of the phrase “burbling pixie.”

-On celebrity: “Debunking the eminent is now a national sport” (p. 101). So as it was in1956, so shall it ever be.

-Trying to remember a name: “ ‘Now what was it?  Eulalie something?  Clarice some thing [sic]” (p. 185)?  The reappearance of Eulalie.  I wonder what it was about that name that caught his attention.

-Thus as it was in 1956, so shall it ever be, part two: “The American Christmas is very different today from what it was when, as a piefaced lad in my twenties, I first trod the sidewalks of New York.  Then a simple festival, it now seems have got elephantiasis or something.  I don’t want to do anyone an injustice, but the thought has sometimes crossed my mind that some of the big department stores are trying to make money out of Christmas” (p. 204).

-This is a charming image of Plum and his writing environment, surrounded by his pets: “…I pull chair up to typewriter, adjust the Peke which is lying on my lap, chirrup to the foxhound, throw a passing pleasantry to the cat and pitch in” (p. 214.)

Given my general apathy to Plum’s nonfiction, I have revised my reading plans.  There are 18 books remaining unread of the Overlook edition of Wodehouse*** an d I have arranged them by publishing date.  This will let me finish off with Sunset at Blandings, as has always been my intention.

*Read December 2015

**It should be noted that, while I claim to be doing this for my family, I really enjoy doing all of the holiday preparations, mostly because I adore making a fuss over things.  This is a bit difficult to justify time-wise now that I have two small children, but somehow, I always give myself permission to do so around Christmas.  My only disappointment with myself this year is that I was not able to make mincemeat pies,, as I have done every year since about 2008 (maybe earlier?  I should check.  2008 was a good year for me to start things apparently, as that is when I cracked open the first Wodehouse for this project.).  The reason was that on the day that I had allotted, I was tending to my daughter who we kept home from daycare with a vicious cold/cough/lurgy. 

***As of this Christmas, thanks to my uncle, I now own all of books printed in this edition.  It’s an odd feeling.

Bring on the Girls ~or~ Old Friends*

My odyssey through Wodehouse’s nonfiction is not going well for me, I’m afraid.  This month’s selection was co-written with Guy Bolton, who was Wodehouse’s writing partner during his Great White Way days in the opening decades of the twentieth century.  I’m not all that great when it comes to these sort of memoirs, especially since I am not as au fait about this world as I would like to be.   My main problem is that this is the type of book that drops a lot of names of the theatrical denizens of that time.  I perhaps caught about a third of them.  While I was reading the book, I could not shake the feeling that I was listening to gossip at a cocktail party about people I’ve never met.  There were a couple of nice anecdotes about Noel Coward, who is a particular favorite of mine.  For me, the best part was a description about Ethel Wodehouse’s indomitable spirit.  It was good to hear that she possessed the type of fortitude that is desperately necessary when living with an artistic type.

The fact that I did not recognize many of these names was comforting in an odd way.  Whenever I am confronted by popular culture, there are particular individuals who make me wince.  From now on, I can comfort myself somewhat with the knowledge that, in a few decades’ time, they might elicit the same response that I had regarding Justine Johnstone: “Who?”  Immortality is never guaranteed. 

Wodehouse’s relationship with Bolton did not cease with their collaborations.  They lived near one another on Long Island.  A brief Wikipedia scan told me that they walked together frequently, stopping only when Plum died.  Just as it was delightful to finally get a glimpse of Ethel, it is oddly comforting to know that Wodehouse did have a chum with whom to share his gifted lunacy.  The thought of the two of them toddling along the roads in their dotage is a very sweet one. 

*Read November 2015