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
No comments:
Post a Comment