It is possible that my favorite part of any Wodehouse book is the first sentence. I love the way that Wodehouse’s genius comes through from that very first moment, already completely hooking me and drawing me into his next romp.
Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French.
I have blathered on a length about my love for Wodehouse in earlier posts. He’s brilliant, and everyone should read his works, no matter what your usual fare is. While The Luck of the Bodkins wasn’t my favorite Wodehouse (honestly, Albert Peasemarch was driving me crazy), it was still great fun, and an easy 4/5.