by P.G. Wodehouse
Okay, so how can you resist an author whose little biography on the back of the book reads:
P.G. Wodehouse is 87 years old and has written a million books, or else he is a million years old and has written 87 books.
Anyhow, the figures are incredible.
That’s it, by the way – the whole biography section. Brilliant.
Anyway, Wodehouse is still the best cure-all for when you’re feeling sad or wondering if life really is worth living. It is worth living – at least as long as you can keep reading Wodehouse.
In this absolutely delightful story, there are all the usual twists and turns. One of my favorite things about Wodehouse is the way that he throws in a game-changer as the last sentence in a chapter – just when you think things are going one way, they veer off onto another track.
And, of course, there is the descriptive language that only Wodehouse can produce –
Horace burned with remorse and shame. Contrition flowed over him like a tidal wave. Only a moment ago he in his haste had dismissed this man’s intelligence as inferior to that a retarded rabbit, and he now saw how mistaken h e had been. In the matter of brain and when it came to solving problems, no retarded rabbit could hope to compete with him. Even one with an exceptionally high IQ would have to acknowledge that it had met its match.
Wodehouse makes me laugh out loud every time I read one of his books, and if you haven’t tried one of his works, you should do so without delay.