Remembering Good Ol' Plum...

Some people make a difference in very subtle ways, without much glorification, without much noise. 125 years ago, a child was born prematurely somewhere in England and was called "Plum" by most family and friends. The child never bothered to correct them, he never bothered to correct anyone anyway. It amazes you when you really clear your throat and start thinking about it. I have read most of his works several times, many portions are almost verbatim. Still, I can't stop laughing, I can't stop feeling happy and relieved. Its as if some magic hand grabs you by the collar and makes you happy. Simple.

Had his only contribution to literature been Lord Emsworth and Blandings Castle, his place in history would have been assured. Had he written of none but Mike and Psmith, he would be cherished today as the best and brightest of our comic authors. If Jeeves and Wooster had been his solitary theme, still he would be hailed as the Master. If he had given us only Ukridge, or nothing but recollections of the Mulliner family, or a pure diet of golfing stories, Doctor Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse would nonetheless be considered immortal. That he gave us all those - and more - is our good fortune and a testament to the most industrious, prolific and beneficent author ever to have sat down, scratched his head and banged out a sentence.

For me, Wodehouse sort of resurrected. I read a lot of Jeeves during my teens. But, as life passed me by, the old charm of Wodehouse gotten lost in the fog. My girlfriend at that time who eventually chose to marry me, made me re-read Wodehouse and I am thankful for those wonderful evenings I spent with Wooster and PSmith (he is a startling sophisticate, an expelled old Etonian whose delicately attuned nervous system can be shocked by loud colours, celluloid cuffs and the mere mention of an inadequately pressed trouser crease.the "P" is silent - like PTennisnet in Asterix and Cleopetra).

If I were to say that the defining characteristic of Wodehouse, the man, was his professionalism, that might make him sound rather dull. We look for eccentricity, family trauma and personal demons in our great men. Wodehouse, who knew just what was expected of authors, was used to having to apologise for a childhood that was "as normal as rice-pudding" and a life that consisted of little more than "sitting in front of the typewriter and cursing a bit".

Wodehouse, like Shakespeare, created his own writing style that influenced innumerable authors in the years to come. Some of them acknowledge the legacy (read Douglas Adam's preface for 'Sunset at Blandings') and some not.

The first thing that strikes you is Wodehouse's mastery over character portrayals. There is Lord Emsworth himself, the amiable and dreamy peer, whose first love – pumpkins – is soon supplanted by the truest and greatest love of his life, the Empress of Blandings, that peerless Black Berkshire sow. Then there is Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, descendant of the Sieur de Wooster who did his bit in the Crusades, and young Bertram retains the strict code of honour handed down from his ancestor. Bertie Wooster is, of course, the employer of Jeeves, the supreme gentleman's personal gentleman. Much has been written about Jeeves. His imperturbability, his omniscience, his unruffled insight, his orotund speech, his infallible way with a quotation... in short, his perfection. It would be a pity, however, to overlook the character of Bertie Wooster, who is himself a great deal more than the silly ass or chinless wonder that people often imagine. That he is loyal, kind, chivalrous, resolute and magnificently sweet-natured is apparent. But is he stupid? Jeeves is overheard describing him once as "mentally negligible".

The next thing is the narration and Wodehouse's ability to squeeze in the last drop of humour out of a situation. No banana skins, no falling fat people. Pure humour just like the one Mom made. Here is Bertie's way with Victorian poetry:
"I once got engaged to his daughter Honoria, a ghastly dynamic exhibit who read Nietzsche and had a laugh like waves breaking on a stern and rockbound coast. "
and
"Honoria... is one of those robust, dynamic girls with the muscles of a welter-weight and a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging on a tin bridge."

And this can go on and on with hilarious results. As they say, the proof is in the pudding, so go and read the stuff.

Although Wodehouse and his novels are considered quintessentially English, from 1924 on he lived largely in France and the United States. He was also profoundly uninterested in politics and world affairs. When World War II broke out in 1939 he remained at his seaside home in Le Touquet, France, instead of returning to England, apparently failing to recognize the seriousness of the conflict. He was subsequently taken prisoner by the Germans in 1940 and interned by them for a year, first in Belgium, then at Tost in Upper Silesia (now in Poland). (He is recorded as saying "If this is Upper Silesia, one must wonder what Lower Silesia must be like...".) While at Tost, he entertained his fellow prisoners with witty dialogues, which, after being released from internment a few months short of his 60th birthday, he used as the basis for a series of radio broadcasts aimed at America (but not England) he was persuaded by the Germans to make from Berlin. Wartime England was in no mood for light-hearted banter, however, and the broadcasts led to many accusations of collaboration and even treason. Some libraries banned his books. It was not necessary for Orwell to come in defense of Wodehouse, but he could not help himself doing so.

I am not sure how to conclude. Perhaps there is no way for me to conclude because the endless evenings will never conclude, atleast not for me. I wish the contagious bliss touches you also.