The Inimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

 

The Inimitable Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, 1923

I don't know if  you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky's a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there's a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.

'Hallo, Bertie,' said Bingo.

'My God, man!' I gargled. 'The cravat! The gent's neckwear! Why? For what reason?'

'Oh, the tie?' He blushed. 'I - er - I was given it.'

He seemed embarassed so I dropped the subject. We toddled along a bit, and sat down on a couple of chairs by the Serpentine.

'Jeeves tells me you want to talk to me about something,' I said.

'Eh?' said Bingo, with a start. 'Oh yes, yes. Yes.'

I waited for him to unleash the topic of the day, but he didn't seem to want to get going. Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead of him in a glassy sort of manner.

'I say, Bertie,' he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.

'Hallo!'

'Do you like the name Mabel?'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'You don't think there's a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through the tree tops?'

'No.'

He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.

'Of course, you wouldn't. You always were a fat-headed worm without any soul, weren't you?'

'Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all.'

For I realized now that poor old Bingo was going through it once again. Ever since I have known him - and we were at school together - he has been perpetually falling in love with someone, generally in the spring, which seems to act on him like magic. At school he had the finest collection of actresses' photographs of anyone of his time; and at Oxford his romantic nature was a byword. ---- (pages 10-11)

It's difficult to find anything new to say about The Inimitable Jeeves that I haven't already said about others in the series. P. G. Wodehouse is one of the most brilliant writers I've ever read, and the Wooster saga has to be one of (if not the) funniest pieces of comedy writing ever produced.

 

I can't say I've ever read a bad Jeeves book, but there have been weaker entries (generally the ones written later in Wodehoue's career). The Inimitable is definitely not one of the weak ones. As I've said before, the short-story format is perhaps best-suited for Wodehouse's gifts; his plots, if expanded to novel-length, can sometimes become a little labored. Inimitable is, ingeniously, composed of a dozen or so short stories that are linked together. The overall effect is like that of a season of television, composed of episode rather than chapter. It's a format that work brilliantly for Jeeves and Wooster, and the result is a fantastically enjoyable book.

 

The common thread running through all of the stories is Bingo Little, Bertie's haplessly romantic school chum. Over the course of the collection, Bingo falls in love with girl after girl, always with some bizarre obstacle impeding their union. Bertie inevitably ends up roped into some half-witted scheme, and naturally, Jeeves is the only person who can save his employer's best pal from catastrophe.

 

I've always enjoyed Bingo's presence in the Wodehouse 'verse: he's hilariously described as "the hero of a musical comedy who takes the centre of the stage, gathers the boys round him in a circle, and tells them all about his love at the top of his voice." No one can write a well-meaning, but ridiculous buffoon like Wodehouse, and Bingo is in rare form in The Inimitable. The thing I enjoy most about his presence is that he gives Bertie a chance to (occasionally) act as the voice of reason rather than the source of lunacy. Wooster's habit of calling his friend "young Bingo" is not just an affectionate figure of speech; it's a reminder that Bingo is one of the few people that Bertie can legitimately feel superior to. It's quite an accomplishment to be more insane than Bertram Wooster, but Bingo manages it. I think it was the false beard that put him over the edge.

 

As usual, other recurring characters from Wodehouse's stable pop in at various points in the book. Bertie's fearsome Aunt Agatha makes a particularly memorable appearance when, during a trip abroad, Bertie gets a rare opportunity to put her in her place. His tirade is a goofy, glorious masterpiece and probably the closest he's ever gotten to being triumphant in a struggle against his diabolical aunt.

There are some truly brilliant comic setpieces in the book, including an uproariously disastrous Christmas pageant with Bingo at the helm that brings to mind Gussie's iconic prize-giving scene from Right Ho, Jeeves (1934). The sequence where a group of bored small-towners begin betting on the lengths of their pastor's sermons is another gem. And let's not forget the interlude where Bingo joins up with a group of radical Communists. The whole book runs like a Wodehouse highlights reel. The fact that the main storyline is artfully and hilariously tied up at the end is just icing on the cake.

NEXT UP: Henry James's classic ghost story, The Turn of the Screw.

 

The Boy Next Door by Meg Cabot

The Boy Next Door by Meg Cabot, 2002

And I know what you are going to say now, and no, it was not a date, Nadine. For God's sake, it was only Chinese food. In his aunt's kitchen. With Paco sitting there, waiting for one us to drop something so he could vacuum it up.

And no, he didn't make a pass at me. Max, I mean, not Paco. Although I don't see how he could resist, seeing as how I'm sure I was quite stunning in my it's-Saturday-night-and-I-don't-have-a-date sweats.

The fact is, Dolly has to be wrong about Max. He's no ladies' man. It was all very casual and friendly. It turns out we have a lot in common. He likes mysteries and so do I, so we talked about our favorite mysteries. You know, he's quite literary, for a photographer. I mean, compared to some of the guys in the art department at work. Can you picture Larry conversing knowingly about Edgar Allan Poe? I don't think so.

Oh, God, a horrible thought just occurred to me: What if all that stuff Dolly said about Max is true, and he IS a ladies' man? What does that mean, seeing as how he didn't make a pass at me?

It can only mean one thing!

Oh, God, I'm hideous!


Mel ----- (pages 80-81)

I spent a pretty reasonable chunk of my misspent youth reading Meg Cabot's Princess Diaries series (a series I still intend to finish one of these days). Although they were the definition of light reading, Cabot's sure hand with characterization, breezy first-person narration and her infectious and sometimes hilarious humor made the series a ton of fun. The Boy Next Door is the first adult Cabot novel I've read, and it's very similar to the author's YA work, just a little bawdier. It's also every bit as much fun.

The Princess Diaries, as the name suggests, is told through Mia's diary entries, and Boy is similarly narrated entirely through through the  characters' e-mails to each other. The-- rather thin--plot concerns gossip columnist Mel Fuller, a quirky, wide-eyed Midwestern transplant to the Big Apple. When Mel's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Friedlander, is assaulted, her playboy nephew Max Friedlander moves in to dog-sit. Mel and Max quickly fall for each other, but there's a complication: Max is really John Trent, a crime reporter who's been talked into posing as Max.

Like I said, what plot there is is wafer-thin and sort of beside the point. The novel's mystery element is so slight that Cabot seems to forget about it for long stretches, only to toss an occasional reminder that it exists. The fact that the solution is somewhat surprising is more a testament to how minor an impression the storyline has made than to any clever plotting. The climax is one of the book's most belief-suspension-requiring sequences, which doesn't help matters.

But the mystery plot isn't the point. Boy is a funny, clever romantic comedy in book form. Cabot's sprightly style is perfect for this kind of simple, gimmick-driven novel. We've seen the story in a million movies and sitcoms: boy meets girl, boy lies to girl, boy and girl make up. The plot may be nothing special in and of itself, but the execution is solid. Mel is a likably goofy chick-lit protagonist and John a lovingly drawn hunk with a heart of gold, and their romance is fluffily adorable (is 'fluffily' even a word?). There's no suspense about whether or not there'll be a happy ending (spoiler alert: there is); the fun is in the journey.

The e-mail format works quite nicely for a light novel of this kind. While he device absolutely stretches credulity--do these people even own telephones?--it also enables Cabot to let all of her characters give their side of the story without resorting to having twenty-five narrators. The characters are slightly cliched, it's true (the gossipy office sexpot, the bimbo supermodel, the flamboyant gay guy), but they're also very funny, even the broad caricatures like Mel's overbearing small-town mother or Mel's gruff boss. I do think some of John's e-mails represent the far edge of Cabot's abilities as a writer; too often his writing comes off as slightly feminine. 

Cabot's particular brand of smart-aleck humor is definitely in fine form here (just try not to giggle at the idea of a pair of cats named Mr. Peepers and Tweedledum). Most of the characters are deadpan snarkers in the grand style of Mia Thermopolis and the one-liners come fast and furious. I especially enjoyed Aaron, Mel's pompous hipster ex-boyfriend, whose pathetic brand of jerkiness is the butt of many of the best jokes. Max's dumb-but-endearing supermodel girlfriend is also kind of a fun character, and just a shade deeper than you might expect.

There's really not a lot to say about The Boy Next Door: for Cabot fans, it's a fast, refreshing read, heavy on humor and romance, light on suspense and drama. It's a good example of well-written chick lit, even if it's not about to end up on the Pulitzer shortlist.  

NEXT UP: Neil Gaiman's short story collection, Smoke and Mirrors.

The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse

The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse, 1938

He returned with the tissue-restorer. I loosed it down the hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable when you drink Jeeves's patented morning revivers, of having the top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquet balls, felt better. It would have been overstating it to say that even now Bertram was back again in mid-season form, but I had at least slid into the convalescent class and was equal to a spot of conversation.

"Ha!" I said, retrieving the eyeballs and replacing them in position. "Well, Jeeves, what goes on in the great world? Is that the paper you have there?"

"No, sir. It is some literature from the Travel Bureau. I thought that you might care to glance at it."

"Oh," I said. "You did, did you?"

And there was a brief and-- if that's the word I want-- pregnant silence.

I suppose that when two men of iron live in close association with one another, there are bound to be occasional clashes, and one of these had recently popped up in the Wooster home. Jeeves was trying to get me to go on a Round-The-World cruise, and I would have none of it. But in spite of my firm statements to this effect, scarcely a day passed without him bringing me a sheaf or nosegay of those illustrated folders which the Ho-for-the-open-spaces birds send out in the hope of drumming up custom. His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent. ---- (pages 7-8)

If this review could consist entirely of quotes, we'd all be much better off. There is no good way to do justice to the genius of P.G. Wodehouse. His writing is as brilliant as any that I've ever read, and his talent for comedy is absolutely unparalleled by any humorist I'm aware of. At his best (which he is at, in The Code of the Woosters), Wodehouse borders on the sublime. The Jeeves and Wooster series is an absolute embarrassment of reading riches, and Code is a fantastic installment in the ongoing saga.

As it so often does, Bertie Wooster's troubles begin with something deceptively small. His beloved Aunt Dahlia gives him a simple task: go to a London antique shop and sneer at a silver cow-creamer. Things quickly snowball, and Bertie finds himself headed to Totleigh Towers, an English manor house that's fraught with peril for the young Englishman. From scheming friends to sinister magistrates to harebrained schemes, Bertie is trapped in a hopelessly tangled mess that threatens to land him up to the neck in the mulligatawny-- or possibly in prison for theft. Naturally, there is only one man with the smarts to get him out.

I've never read a Jeeves novel that I didn't think was funny, but there have been a few that have been somewhat haphazardly plotted, as though the jokes were more important to Wodehouse than the story. Code,however, is not only a marvelous piece of comic writing, but a fairly brilliant and incredibly intricate example of Wodehouse's hilariously convoluted storytelling. Every single character and storyline at Totleigh Towers (and there are a lot of them) are hopelessly entangled with one another. Wodehouse was an avowed fan of mysteries (he was friends with Rex Stout, and reportedly loved the Nero Wolfe novels), and much of his writing is an affectionate parody of the genre. I love the way that Wodehouse twists mystery/thriller cliches and uses them for comedy; Wooster's straight-facedly dramatic narration is itself a bit of a sendup of overwrought penny dreadfuls. What makes the device so funny is that it isn't overdone.

Dear God, this book is funny, though. And on so many levels. Wodehouse is a master of pretty much every form of comedy: low, high and everything in between. There are several marvelous sequences of pure physical comedy--Roderick Spode getting a painting around his neck could be a Three Stooges original-- as well as farce, wit and sheer weirdness. And all of the humor works together. One scene can combine a pratfall, a play on words, a farcical misunderstanding and some sneaky inside jokes, all wrapped up in Bertie's hilariously effervescent narration. The book seems smooth and effortless, but Wodehouse was aware of the delicate balancing act he was engaging in. It would be ridiculously easy for the jokes to get stale or the stylized narration. In some of the later Jeeves tales, you can see Wodehouse struggling a bit to come up with material that feels fresh. There is no sign of this in Code, where everything works from start to finish.

Wodehouse's attention to continuity is another of his finest attributes. Not only does Bertie remember (and refer to) previous adventures, he has actually learned from them, too. Rarely has he learned anything useful, of course, but the way the past installments affect the current one is truly masterful. Code has a huge cast of recurring characters, too: Aunt Dahlia, Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Basset, Pop Basset, Stiffy Byng, Stinker Pinker and Roderick Spode, who Wodehouse seems to take particular delight in tormenting. Stiffy, a highly manipulative and unlikable friend of Bertie's, makes what I think is her first appearance in Code, and she's part of a long line of female friends who torment Bertie mercilessly. She's not as much fun as Bobbie Wickham, and if I have a criticism for the book, it's that the plot relies a little too heavily on Stiffy's capricious whims.

On the other hand, my favorite piece of character development is the timid and weak-willed Gussie finding an unorthodox way to gain confidence: thinking (and writing down) insulting thoughts about authority figures. This leads to some frankly amazing scenes where Gussie bosses around the fearsome Spode and treats Bertie with cold contempt, only to revert back to his old persona when his notebook of criticisms is stolen -- hilariously, they seem to mostly revolve around the way Spode eats asparagus at the dinner table. Obviously, this is is not exquisitely subtle character work, but it is an example of the marvelously effective ways that Wodehouse plays with his characters and allows them to have just barely enough depth to not be complete caricatures. If Bertie Wooster wasn't a fundamentally kind and good person, his over-the-top idiocy would be wearying.

Likewise, a novel with this much lunacy in it needs to be tethered somehow, however tenuously, to reality. Most of all, though, it needs to be funny, which The Code of the Woosters is, gloriously, brilliantly, laugh-out-loud-in-public funny. P.G. Wodehouse was clearly a genius and one of the most accomplished writers I've ever read, even though he turns his enormous talents to comedy instead of drama. Just because something is brilliant doesn't mean it can't be fun, too.

NEXT UP: The Girl Who Played with Fire, Number Two in the Millennium Trilogy. And while you're waiting breathlessly for that review, why not hop on over to my new companion blog, As I Lay Reading? It's free for the first thirty days (and all the rest of the days)!