Writers on Writers

The last book of the Psmith chronicles put us in familiar territory, namely, Blandings Castle.  Crossovers like this happen every now and again in the Wodehouse universe, and it is something that I tend to enjoy.  The feeling is akin to slipping into comfortable clothes after a long and particularly trying day. 

The main action is featured around authors, both real and imposter.  In this case, both types are poets, one male and the other female.  Going by his portrayal of them, Wodehouse does not seem to have much time for the discipline.  The female poet’s oeuvre is of the twee and sentimental variety.  Wodehouse’s scorn is palpable, even more so when it is revealed that she has quite a lucrative career from it.  Perhaps not coincidentally, she is also a master con-artist, so take that as you will.  The implications are scathing, and make me wonder if Wodehouse had an enforced diet of treacle-laden verse shoved down his throat when he was in school.

The other author is a male poet who pens verse that no one seems to comprehend.  He is impersonated by Psmith, who attempts to present the man as a more relatable fellow than he verses would suggest.  Many comments are made about how he is not what people were expecting.  It is likely that the comment was made to heighten the comic effect of the impersonation, but I start to wonder if Wodehouse was plagued by poets whom he found to be tedious.  After all, he would continue the trope of a schoompy poetess in Madeline Bassett, whose signature damming phrase is that she refers to stars as, “Nature’s daisy chain.”

The one author that Wodehouse seems to respect if Rosie M. Banks, who does not appear in this novel.  She specializes in women’s literature (probably early 20^th century chick lit), but her character is sensible enough to earn admiration.  Ms. Banks is not the sort to lapse into mooning text, and I sense that Wodehouse saw a lot of himself- or another author that he admired- in her no nonsense approach to giving people what they want.  It also helps that she is not hurting for cash and is one of a long line of Wodehouse female characters who is the economic powerhouse of the couple, but that falls into the list of things that need to be addressed at another time.

Shocking the Dead

I spent the second half of my 2013 reading life immersed in the worlds of Wodehouse and Game of Thrones.  It was a strange juxtaposition.  On the one hand, Wodehouse presents an idealized world where fortune and personal happiness might be in the balance, but never one’s life.  I have yet to meet a body count in Plum’s oeuvre.  On the other hand, we have Westeros.  The body count there has surpassed mere calculations and just about everyone is too occupied in a life-or-death struggle to pause and consider if they are happy with their situation.  Even when the characters indulge in a tea, these occasions are generally laced with intrigue and political malice.

One thing that Wodehouse and Martin are both able to do is provide the reader with engaging stories and characters.  Both can plot a twist in a story like no one’s business.  Admittedly, Martin takes his twists to the extremes with beheadings and whatnot, but it is important to acknowledge that both authors have the ability to surprise the reader.  Interrupting the reader’s expectations goes a long way in my definition of a successful book.  It is good to have your worldview refreshed every now and again, and much less devastating if it can happen within the confines of two covers.

The best part about catching up with my husband in the Song of Ice and Fire is that he is no longer at the point of implosions when we discuss plot developments.  I also miss some of the characters and I keep hoping for some sort of an update on how they’re getting on.  Conversely, it be a long time before I run out of books that keep me abreast on the doings of Bertie and his lot, although when it happens, I know that will be the final word (although goodness knows when Martin will get around to publishing his fifth book).*  Although I’ll miss them for now, one nice thing about waiting for Book Six is that I am now free to read other things.  For now, this means that I am able to indulge my taste for non-fiction and leaving the shocking turns to Plum.  Unless Bertie Wooster becomes a paid assassin, I think that my literary shocks for the future will be of the tame variety.

*As the reader might have surmised, I persist in my refusal to acknowledge any book involving a Wodehouse character not written by Plum to be canon. 

Psmith, Journalist

There is an ongoing debate amongst Wodehouse devotees about the extent to which the author was politically aware.  The origin of this debate centers on a series of radio broadcasts that he made during World War II which can make him seem sympathetic to the Germans.  Stated in those harsh terms, it seems as though Plum was a fascist.

Context, of course, is everything.  If my memory serves, Plum and his wife were being held as enemy aliens.  He had not seen Ethel for a while and, given his level of affection for his spouse, I can only imagine how frantic he felt.  Granted, he was British, so the frenzy was bubbling very deeply beneath the surface, but bubble it did.  I can’t say that I would not do the same under similar circumstances.

Why the Nazi party thought that he was the ideal candidate to make pro-Germany statements to the US to try to keep them out of the war is beyond me.  If David Sedaris started supporting the Tea Party, I would turn a deaf ear.  The same holds with other authors of lighter literature.  Many of the fans of Ender’s Game have problems with the author’s views on homosexuality.  I’ve never read the books, but I have yet to meet someone who had who became homophobic because he or she read the works.  Of course, there is always the argument about supporting such a person by buying their works.  This is complicated and each person has to follow their own conscience.  To my mind, the notion that a beloved writer would be able to sway the thoughts of a nation probably came from the same group of geniuses who thought that paying a social call on the Soviets in the dead of winter was a cunning plan.* 

One of the arguments justifying Wodehouse’s actions, devised by MI5, was that he was politically naive.  At one time, this made sense to me.  Upon further reflection, however, I am beginning to sincerely doubt this.  The satirical creation of Roderick Spode is not the work of an anti-political mind.  Another piece of evidence came in Psmith, Journalist, my January Wodehouse selection.  This book sends out heroes, Mike and the titular Psmith, sojourning to New York.  There, Psmith becomes involved in a journalistic crusade against a slumlord.  Listening to Psmith pontificating about social justice, etc., felt eerily similar to listening to one’s early 20-something cousin who has recently become politically conscious.  Said cousin is convinced that he must change your mind, because certainly these astounding revelations could never have been made by anyone before.  In short, these parts were a little tedious to read.

While they might have been tedious, the words could not have been written by someone who was deaf to political situations.  While lacking in satire, they are rife with sincerity.  Last night’s Oscars reminded me that comic actors have also delivered devastating dramatic performances.  Wodehouse in WWII was called upon to make a choice.  In the end, the events suggest that he went with his heart.  He had to deal with the ramifications for the rest of his life and imposed a self-exile from the UK.  Although the post-WW II tax situation has been documented to have played a role in Wodehouse’s decision, I wonder if the move was made in part because he could not fully face what he had been forced to do. 

*This does call into question the thought about the transformative power of literature.  I do believe that it exists, and that a book can be very powerful.  But, in this instance, I really do wonder what the Germans were on about. 

The Problem with Mike

I was talking with my Wodehouse-mad uncle the other day and, as is our wont, we briefly glanced over the topic of our mutually adored author.  He asked how I was getting along in my quest (although I now know that he actually reads this blog, so Hello Uncle!) and I explained that my current course of action was to read all of the Psmith novels in one go.  There are about four in the series, depending on how one counts the first books, especially given that The Overlook Press decided to publish it in two volumes.  At the time, I had just finished Psmith in the City, and I remarked on the character of Mike.  I noted that, while he dominated the first couple of books, I was beginning to notice that he was taking a back seat to the wild antics of Psmith.

My uncle smiled, and told me that that would be the way of things for the next couple of novels.  I’m not surprised.  Mike is a lovely, solid character, insistent on both doing the right thing and the glory that is cricket.  The problem with a character like that is there is only so far you can go with him.  These overly principled types are all right for a while in a Wodehouse novel, usually as a comic foil, but I can begin to see that Wodehouse was feeling as though he was painting himself into a literary corner. 

Psmith is on the opposite end of the spectrum.  He has eccentricities that annoy other characters, and his presence dominates every landscape he inhabits, which is quite the feat given that I’m reading a book instead of watching a film adaptation.  For instance, Psmith wears a monocle at opportune moments in the plot that greatly vexes any authority figure.  He fixates on people that he is trying to win over like a bloodhound  and even goes so far as to track them down in the sanctum of their private clubs.  Mike, on the other hand, does not make himself a nuisance to his fellow man.  On at least two occasions, he has taken the blame for doing something he did not, if only to make the life of the actual perpetrator a little easier.  The impression that I’m given is that Wodehouse is in the middle of a balancing act, trying to figure out how much larger than life he can make his characters without upsetting the comic balance of his work.  One of the reasons that I think Bertie and Jeeves are so brilliant is that they both have defined characters which both test the limits of plausibility without shattering them.  Mike is more of the strong and silent type, which can be a lovely thing to have in one’s life, but not quite as entertaining in one’s literature. 

Wasted Efforts

After a series of adventures, I finally got my hands on a copy of Mike and Psmith, the successor to last month’s selection, Mike at Wyrkyn.  There is a lot of promise for the Psmith series, but thus far it has been revealed only in brief glimmers that emerge amidst the numerous accounts of cricket matches and the scheming that occurs around them.  Instead of writing even more about my adversarial relationship with the sporting world, I would like to address something that falls somewhat under the heading of current events.  This is quite a departure for this blog, since most of what I am reacting to was new over a century ago, but it has gotten up my ire.

For those of you who have been bored silly by the recent financial fiasco, never fear, this has nothing to do with it.  Instead, what I am concerned about is directly related to Wodehouse, and thus has escaped the notice of most of the national press.  It appears that the author’s heirs, not satisfied with the dosh brought in by over 90 books and other writings, decided that what the world really needed was yet another Jeeves and Wooster story.  They hired a well-known author, Sebastian Faulks, to pen the thing using Wodehouse’s voice. 

I have nothing against Mr. Faulks.  He apparently is adored by the masses.  Up to a point, I don’t mind taking older tales and putting some new spin on them.  For instance, I am very fond of the re-imagining  of Pride and Prejudice that is Bridget Jones’ Diary and took great delight in Baz Lurhman‘s Moulin Rouge.  However, I think that it is a bit of wasted effort to do things such as remake Carrie or Brideshead Revisited, when the originals are clearly classic pieces that deserve to be watched time and again.  Perhaps I draw the line at things which are mere re-treads and do not add anything to the cultural world (such as the reshoot of Psycho; what a waste of time and resources).

One of my colleagues broke the news to me about the “new Wodehouse” in the office last week.  I had wanted to think that it was a bad dream, until this month’s Vanity Fair made its way into my postbox.  There, among the stories of the new influential groups of people, was an excerpt.  I told myself that I had to read the entire thing before I allowed myself to form an opinion.  The sad thing is that, about half a page into it, I really could not force myself to go on.  To be honest, it’s not horrible.  But that’s the problem.  There was a lot of dead dialogue with soulless descriptions and, occasionally, a moment when Mr. Faulks remembered that Wodehouse was a pithy comic genius and wrote accordingly.  Vintage Wodehouse fizzes off of the page.  The language sparkles, but one cannot detect the effort that must have been poured into each and every word.  Mr. Faulks’ effort, on the other hand, feels belabored, almost as if one were watching a play and the backstage business at the same time.  It’s distracting, and leads me to the eternal question: why?