The Wodehouse Code

I know that I’ve read The Code of the Woosters at least on two other occasions.  It is a delightful book, and I can think of no better way to begin the summer season then by considering the theft of a silver cow creamer.  Of course, it is not technically summer yet,* I think, but we’ve relaxed the dress code at work, so it might as well be.  During my eight-year mission to read the collected Wodehouse, I have unofficially decided to reserve Jeeves and Wooster books for the summer.  My uncle, the one who shares my Wodehouse obsession,** only reads Wodehouse during the summer, because he feels as though the novel’s lighthearted qualities can only be fully appreciated during the season of heat and lassitude (and, given that we live in New England, absurd levels of humidity). 

I understand this urge to associate books with different seasons.  Recently, I finished Wolf Hall.  It is an admirable book, and has nabbed noteworthy prizes, but somehow I wish that I had read it during the winter.  Maybe because the Tudor period coincided with a miniature Ice Age I always think of that time as a chilly one.  At any rate, now is the season when I have traditionally taken up books that are light in nature.  That might be a little different this year, because I have, at long last, come to the decision that I really ought to read the Game of Thrones series.  Goodness knows there is little happiness in those books; the only ones who seem to get a kick out of life are the sadistic characters.  That being said, I have seen the three seasons of the HBO production of the show, and I think my long-suffering boyfriend might well and truly burst if he has to keep certain plot developments to himself for very much longer. 

This is not a decision that I have made rashly.  Each of those five tomes is a door-stopper, and what with my laundry list of responsibilities, my reading time is not as plentiful as I would like it to be.  Still, I do not let long works put me off; I did read 1Q84 this year, and that book clocked in at over 900 pages.  The decision to read another Murakami book came easily.  He is, after all, one of my favorite writers, and I never regret time spent with him.  There are some books that I flatly refuse to read.  The most notable is the Twilight series, mostly because I cannot buy into the notion of sparkly vampires.  When it comes to choosing my reading material, I lean toward authors I know, non-fiction works on topics that interest me (mostly biographies of the oddballs who spice up history), and books that I feel will have some lasting importance.  I also belong to a book club, which has induced me to read things, like Gone Girl, that I might not have picked up on my own.  I did, however, refuse to endorse reading a Sweet Valley High books as our summer selection. 

One of the things that I like about Wodehouse is that he is still being read, despite his tone, which is very much a product of the early 20^th century.  The endorsement of a century of readers makes me feel comfortable with devoting years of my life to him.  As much as I would like to say that I simply don’t care what other people think, the truth of the matter is that I do.  And while Plum probably does not have as many readers as George R.R. Martin these days, there is something about having the approving heft of the ages behind me.

*Please note that I write this in mid-June, during was very chilly spring.  My bleeding heart shrub loved it, and is now wilting in sweltering heat.

**I have six uncles, two of whom are no longer with us, and two great-uncles, both of whom are reportedly hovering at Death’s door, however, that news is from my Slavic grandmother, and we Slavs are never truly happy unless our lives are somehow tinged with misery.  As I far I know, only one parental brother has succumbed to Plum’s siren call, although who knows; perhaps those who are on the other side take tea with the master on a regular basis.