Country Life

                While Wodehouse set a good number of his novels and stories in London and New York, a staggering number were also set in country houses.  This is more than fine by me, a shameless Downton Abbey devotee.  Aside from being a crucial part of upper class living, they also provide an environment where characters are thrown into high relief, and enemies are forced to cope with one another at dinner.  The countryside also provides much amusement in simply getting around.  In The Mating Season (I think, it might be another one), there is a famous bit where Bertie has to go to and fro on a bicycle in the middle of the night to retrieve a key.  People dash off with furious desperation to catch milk trains to avoid sticky situations.  Had the story been in a major city, one could simply hail a cab, which is very efficient but does not provide the same comic scope.

                The book I read in August, Thank You, Jeeves, is a prime example of the country house book, although there is also a yacht and a cottage thrown in for good measure.  There are a couple of interesting variations on a theme with this novel.  First off, this is one of the earlier examples that I know of in Wodehouse where the owner of the estate is in a tight financial position.  This is an acknowledgement that the high death duties (akin to estate taxes in the US) that were imposed by the government in the early 20^th nearly wiped out the members of the upper class who were land rich but cash poor.  Many had to sell off land, valuable artwork, jewelry, and sometimes even the main house itself in order to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.  The theme of financially desperate gentry winds throughout the Wodehouse oeuvre, making them vulnerable to get rich quick schemes, or, causing them to fall in love with rich Americans whose deep pockets will sort out everything.

                The second variation is that Jeeves is temporarily out of Bertie’s employment following a disagreement between the two about a banjolele.  The interesting thing is that it is Jeeves, rather than the socially superior Bertie, who is living in the manor house while Bertie has rented a cottage to avoid some disagreeable neighbors in the metropolis.  The position of these two characters tells us all that we need to know: that Bertie literally cannot maintain his position in comfort without his trusty valet.  In fact, Jeeve’s replacement incinerates the cottage, temporarily rendering Bertie homeless.  Again, had this been in London, Bertie could simply spent the night at his club.  But that’s the problem with the country, everything is a little bit more difficult, and thank goodness for that, because it makes for a very good read. 

The Inimitable Jeeves

This book could very easily have been titled “The Many Loves of Bingo Little.”  It was extremely satisfying to me for a couple of reasons.  The first was that, although a Bertie and Jeeves novel, it heavily featured one of my favorite supporting Wodehouse characters: the aforementioned Mr. Little.  He is an old school chum of Bertie’s, and, in later volumes, tends to be a more stable presence.  The other aspect of the novel that I found enjoyable was its structure.  It felt like a series of interconnected short stories, with details and themes that at first appeared to be inconsequential being woven throughout and are ultimately crucial to the plot.  I always enjoy when an author does not mention something only to abandon it later.  I suppose that is why I’m always a stickler for continuity in television series writing (although, for some odd reason, I always give Doctor Who a pass, perhaps because all of the timey-wimey stuff sometimes boggles my brain.). 

In the course of the book Bingo falls in and out love perhaps a half-dozen times.  At one point, I began to wonder if this was almost meant as a piece of satire.  This came when Bertie was describing his idea of a good time as chucking dinner rolls around the dining room of his private club and then, in the same breath, thinking that Bingo was being more than a little silly due to the rapidity at which he became besotted with the female du jour.  You know you are in trouble when someone who counts the height of their day as food fight thinks you are a bit potty.  Wodehouse’s humor derives mostly from his elegant wordplay and observations.  There is almost no cruelty involved with his comic observations.  In this way, he differs greatly from Edward St. Aubyn, who wrote the Patrick Melrose novels.  I read the first four books of that series this summer (there are five altogether.  The last one was published this year.).  They are highly enjoyable and deeply funny, although the humor I cruelty at its most basic.  St. Aubyn has much in common with Bret Easton Ellis.  His bon mots almost feel like the first grenades being lobbed in a class war. 

The other thing that struck me about the Patrick Melrose character is that one of his guiding forces is lust.  The same could probably be said about Mr. Little, although Wodehouse never touches upon sex.  You know that it must happen, as babies emerge now and then, but, typically for this period, it is never mentioned.  He approaches Bingo’s infatuations from a very innocent point of view, making him seem more like the prisoner of his emotions that some sex-starved young man on the make.  Bertie’s amusement about Bingo’s romantic entanglements, I would venture to say, mirrors Wodehouse’s gentle mocking of what young men can be like.  It is affectionate, as though Wodehouse himself was relieved to be removed from such a period himself.  This gentle humor is one of the parts of Wodehouse’s writing that I really like.  It is such a relief from our modern times, which has such a rough edge it to.  Reading Wodehouse is like a vacation for one’s sensibilities.

My Man Jeeves ~or~ Déjà vu, Again

In my last entry, I alluded to the fact that, aside from pure enjoyment, there was another reason that I enjoyed reading My Man Jeeves.  There are a lot of writers who have issued lengthy statements about why they write, or how to write, but one rarely sees an example of a writer actually at work.  One could, I suppose, track down original manuscripts and do textual analysis between various drafts and the published product, but I don’t believe that my employers would consider that to be included in the “other duties as assigned” part of my job description.  Forget the weekends, as those are generally occupied by my family members on both extremes of the age spectrum. 

Having read Carry On, Jeeves in December, the stories were still freshish in my head, and I was able to notice differences.  The most striking one was Bertie’s allusions to his wealth in the earlier versions of the stories.  These references were not ostentatious, more comparisons where he would state that he had pots of dosh as oppose to some of his friends, who had to work to keep food in mouth.  I don’t remember seeing anything like that in later works.  Perhaps it has something to do with when the books were written.  My Man Jeeves was originally published in 1919.  From the little I know of the era, it reminds me of the go-go- 80’s, when people were not afraid to flaunt wealth, or even the late 90’s/early noughties, when those tech-fueled binges happened, mostly, I think, because the geeks were overwhelmed by the novelty of having massive amounts of credit at their disposal and the power to command attention (well, what they ultimately did was crash the economy- talk about a true show of power- but that’s a discussion for another time).  Certainly, although Bertie never became truly impoverished, he never did make the same references.  Perhaps Wodehouse felt that his simply not having to work and being able to employ a valet were evidence enough of his net worth.  As his writing career went on, and the Depression happened and then the privations that accompanied the Second World War, I am guessing that he consciously toned down the “I have money,” lines and let the circumstances speak for themselves.

The one thing that I noticed is that the second published version of the stories has more in the description arena.  From what my hazy memory tells me, the descriptive passages lengthened, moving away from the staccato nature of pages of rapid-fire dialogue that were the hallmarks of his earlier works.  It is something that makes sense, at least on an instinctual level.  Recently, I took up a book that I wrote about ten years ago.  After the initial cringes that always come on whenever I read something I wrote, I took out a pen and started re-writing.  Oddly enough, instead of taking things out, I added quite a bit. This is not to suggest in any way that my writing is at all comparable to Wodehouse’s, but I wonder if he felt the same way about his earlier works.  Certainly, there is a school of thought about writing that emphasizes the importance of revision.  Most recently, this was highlighted in an essay by Colson Whitehead that appeared in The New York Times.  One of the main observations about Plum’s work is that he merely re-wrote the same plot umpteen times.  While I do not entirely agree with this, it is becoming more apparent to me that he was an ardent revisionist, and simply could not stop, even if the work in question had been published. 

My Man Jeeves ~or~ Déjà vu

The rear of the dust jackets of the Overlook editions of Wodehouse are very factual.  They give almost a synopsis of the book, and, in some instances, come quite close to giving away the denouement.  It must be a nice job to have, because it does seem that not only does the person (or persons) who writes them have actually read the book, but enjoyed it as well.  The blurb on the back of My Man Jeeves makes it very clear that the stories it contains are the earlier versions of the ones featured in Carry on, Jeeves, which I read in December 2011.  As I made my way through the book, it was with the comfort that I knew what twist the plot would follow to make certain that everything would come out in the wash for Bertie and Jeeves.  

When I began the book, it occurred to me that I could mark it as already having been read on technical grounds.  At this point, my over-developed sense of propriety and the hint of obsessive mania that lurks at the fringes of my personality joined forces and insisted that, if the early twentieth-century reading public had the band-width for two highly similar Wodehouse tomes, then so did I.  I’m not sorry that I read it, for a very good reason that I’m going to address in my next blog entry.  I am normally highly protective of my reading time.  Since the birth of my son, it tends to be limited to my train journeys to and from work, meaning that I had better enjoy it.  When I had unlimited reading time, I would make myself finish whatever I started (yet more evidence of my perfectionist strain).  With age, I think I have become more critical, and as such, if I feel that a book is poorly constructed, I toss it to the winds and give it a poor review on Goodreads. 

These books tend to be biographies, which surprised me when I reflected on this topic of abandoned tomes, since I have a high tolerance for things that can verge on the ponderous.  The fact is that I am a lover of plots.  One of the things I adore most about a biography is the sense that I am living through the remarkable figure’s life with them. My favorite biography of all times is a book on the Mitford sisters by Mary Lovell.  If you have not read this, run to your nearest purveyor of books, be it Amazon, a bookstore or your local library, I promise not to judge.  Two of the biographies I have stopped were beautifully written: Hermione Lee on Edith Wharton and Joan Schenkar on Patricia Highsmith.  The problem with the Wharton biography was that, fifty pages in, the author was still warbling on vaguely about her literary heritage and going nowhere.  While I expected something like that in an account of a literary titan by an eminent professor, there has to be a point where the editor says enough is enough and makes the author cut something to get to their childhood.  The Highsmith was especially disappointing,.  The writing style was lively and highly engaging.  Unfortunately, the author chose to take a thematic approach.  This meant that she kept referencing earlier and later parts of the book, which would have been fine if it were only about 300 pages or so, but this one clocked in at no fewer than 500, and I believe that is before one counts the appendices.  Probably 50 of those pages could have been cut if Schenkar  had followed a linear thought pattern.  As it was, I threw up my hands at page 200.

Oddly enough though, I did not feel that my time was wasted by reading the first official version of now-familiar stories.  For one, I whizzed through the volume in a few days.  More importantly though, I found myself still enjoying them, which is rather the point of reading for pleasure, isn’t it?

Meeting Old Friends for the First Time

Something Fresh is the first book about the inhabitants of Blandings Castle.  It is not, however, the first Blandings novel I have read.  Lord Emsworth and his prize pig, the Empress of Blandings, are far from being novel acquaintances.  It was very strange then to have him introduced for the first time.  As a character in this book, he had the tendency to float off to the side.  He is not a major presence in the other books, his being does not loom large as, say, as one of the Wooster aunts.  However, in the later books he is made to be a more sympathetic character; in this book, I felt as though having set him up as a dotty old man with a scatty mind, that Wodehouse wrote himself into a corner.  Perhaps part of this lack of motivating force behind the character is that his grand passion, the Empress herself, has yet to arrive upon the scene.  There needs to be something driving a character, even one who is perceived to be away with the fairies most of the time.  When Wodehouse introduced the pig, it probably felt as though everything clicked into place.

I had a situation recently where I encountered earlier manifestations of people I know quite well in the current day, and it reminded me of my encounter with Lord Emsworth in this novel.  Reading the book, I felt as though I was meeting someone I had already met for the first time, and that everything had not been developed.  It must be the sort of thing that time-travelers are subjected to, if that really exists.  My parents’ 40^th wedding anniversary occurred last month.  As part of the celebrations, I put together a large photo montage documenting them through the years.  I had a good laugh looking at the many stages and phases that my parents’ hair went through, documenting my father’s glorious long locks from the 70’s that skimmed his shoulders to today, where he has what can probably most politely be termed a streamlined look.  My mother was not immune to the whims of the ages, as I was reminded that she was afflicted with a perm for a good portion of the Regan years.  Despite these follicular changes, it was very evident that they were my parents, even in their more youthful, carefree incarnations.

The oddest part of it was looking at pictures of me during my first year of life, and then comparing them with pictures of my son from the same time of his life.  We share the same chubby round face, blue eyes and bow-shaped lips.  It is almost like seeing a Xerox, but of course, a closer inspection revealed the differences, much the same as reading further into the Blandings series shows the development of Lord Emsworth’s personality.  My son’s nose is entirely different, and I’m convinced he either stole it from my father or his.  Then there are the differences in temperament and interests.  For instance, in his short life he has already shown more interest in balls used for athletic purposes than I have in my almost four decades on this planet.  He also has a merry twinkle that I’m certain skipped my generation.  Yet there are bits of myself that I do recognize in him, and help me to understand him and not be so anxious about his development. 

Catching up with Lord Emsworth after initially meeting him mid-stream was a little confusing.  After I finished the book, I found myself appreciating how Wodehouse went about modifying him, and finally hitting upon his eureka moment that led to the Emsworth that is more instantly recognizable by Wodehouse nuts (or are we fanatics, or perhaps there is an established collective noun that I don’t know: a gaga of Wodehouse aficionados?).  Getting to know who my son is has a similar feel to it as I see bits of me in him, although ultimately I don’t have the knowledge that he’ll definitely turn out like either of his parents, or develop an overwhelming mania for porcine development for that matter.  Life is not as easily scripted as a book, and thank goodness for that. 

Money for Nothing and Surprising People

The main character in April’s Wodehouse, John Carroll, seems to be rather an intellectual dullard throughout most of the proceedings.  Towards the end (should one put a spoiler alert on a book that was written in 1928?), he shows an inner cunning that perhaps even he had not known he possessed.  In fact, those who are witness to his ability to concoct a workable scheme are also surprised.  The emergence of his intellect resolved a part of the construction of the book that had been bothering me.  Wodehouse very frequently plays off someone who is not a brainbox with a brilliant schemer.  The obvious example is Jeeves and Wooster, but I have noticed other such parallels.  Maybe the explanation lies in the fact that this book comes rather early on in Wodehouse‘s career, when his style was a bit more changeable.  Certainly, the minimalism I noted in the school tales had at this time been replaced by the more florid descriptions and dialogue, but there is still a feeling that he has not quite settled into the fiction-churning machine that he would become in his later years.  All of which makes it plausible that the supposed no-hoper at the beginning of the book transforms into its hero.

Thinking about people who are not what they seem reminded me of one of my friends from college.  We met in a writing class, and, at first glance, she seemed as though butter would not melt in her mouth.  She has the wide blue eyes, conservative dress and innocent expression that would convince anyone that here was someone who was probably only sweetness and light, and perhaps someone who might be a push-over.  Adding to the picture was that she hailed from Canada, the land of nice, polite people, or so the stereotype would have us believe.  As I got to know her over the ensuing years, I realized that she had a wicked sense of humor and enough mettle to tussle in the ultra-competitive world of pre-med at our alma mater.  I almost respect her more for having a deceptive façade.

I was reminded about the extremes of deceptive personality types in another book I read this month, The Psychopath Test.  Mind you, I don’t normally go around reading about the mentally unbalanced, but this was for a book club.  So of I went, going along with the rather neurotic author as he learned about the lists developed by psychologists to determine whether or not someone was a psychopath.  The most startling observation he made was that there are a lot of people in power who could technically fit the profile.  Then, he started seeing psychopathic traits in a lot of the people he met.  Some of the members of my book club reported doing the same thing, and I caught myself playing the game once or twice. 

I have met at least one psychopath in my life, and, let me tell you, I try to know where this person is for avoidance purposes.  When I found that I was trying to identify more, I stopped myself.  A few years ago, I watched a documentary about the effects of an eruption of the super volcano that is temporarily lying dormant underneath Yellowstone National Park.  The description of the resulting devastation terrified me, not least because I learned that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.  When the show ended, one of the friends I watched the show with turned to me and said something along the lines of, “For my sanity, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.”  This is the attitude that I will be adopting about The Psychopath Test.  It was entertaining enough, but it could be dangerous to my well-being in the long run.  Far better to stick with plumbing the hidden depths of an innocuous Wodehouse character. 

The Heart of a Goof

My father’s life for the last thirty-eight years has been intertwined with those of two high-strung, vaguely neurotic women (namely, my mother and me).  This is a man whose feminine side is not the most overt, and who spent a great deal of his youth playing the sports that I would spend a great deal of mine trying to avoid.  Despite this, he does have the unfortunate tendency to be the sole parent on duty when tragedy befalls me, and has learned over the years how to deal effectively with a woe-ridden, snotty female. 

Over twenty years ago, which, now that I think about it, was during my laugh-a-minute adolescence, he took up golf.  It was a smart move made by a very smart man.  If possible, my mother is even less athletically inclined that I am, so there was no chance that either of us would be clamoring to join him on the links.  He had at last found his sanctuary, and every spring he gets a misty look in his eyes when he contemplates the beginning of the season. 

As I stated above, my appreciation of the game is limited.  Occasionally, I have watched televised golf tournaments with my father, but they are not the most riveting of viewing.  So it was with my father in mind that I took up March’s book, which was a collection of Wodehouse golf tales.  To be honest, the first few stories held only slightly more interest than watching a pre-scandal Tiger Woods meandering around yet another rolling green field.  I was struck with the mania that Wodehouse seems to have had for the game.  This is a man who only casually describes the collapse of marriages and breaking of engagements, yet in golf, one finds the alpha and omega of life, the source of true passion.  He may only have been sarcastic about the importance of the game, but somehow, given the number of golf stories that he wrote and the fact that one usually jokes about the things they hold most dear, I don’t think this is the case.  He may have been married to Ethel for years and have been devoted to her, but in golf, at least, he had a favored mistress.

The book, for me, at least, took a dramatic upturn in quality with the last three stories.  They concern a trio involved in a romantic triangle and their adventures over the years.  Golf is only tangentially involved.  For me, a non-golfer, it strikes just the right balance of displaying Wodehouse’s slightly loopy obsession and a good yarn.  I have the feeling that the golfers among us would disagree, and would defend to their death the importance of stories describing the effect of red flannel plus-fours on one’s game.  To them, I can only nod sympathetically, knowing that it is best not to debate a fanatic.