As I have noted before in this space (well, at least I think
I have noted this before, it seems like the sort of thing I would have noted before,
but this blog has been going on long enough that I now no longer remember what
I have written (Egads! Now I am
wondering if I have already written a parenthetical aside on the fact that I
can no longer remember what I have written in this blog (Fortunately, I am
pretty sure I have not heretofore had a parenthetical aside on a parenthetical
aside on this topic, so at least this third (and mercifully penultimate) parenthetical
aside is new))), I am not a big fan of biography (curiously, if I had just started
this blog post with the final clause of this sentence, neither the aforementioned
nor the current parenthetical asides would have been necessary, and yet the topic
for this blog post, instead of being buried in a plethora (I’ve always liked that
word) of parentheses, might be apparent to the casual reader (as if such a
being ever visited these provinces)). Biographies
tend to bore me. While I can thoroughly
enjoy a chapter or an article about someone’s life, a book-length treatment has
far too many details about which I really don’t care. I suspect that someday I will discover I love
biographies after all, and then there will be a whole new set of books on my “To
Read” list. But right now, said list is
really short on biography. There are a few odd biographies on that list, but
most of them are there because there is something about the book other than the
biography itself which intrigues me.
So, when a few years back Robert McCrum wrote a critically acclaimed
biography of P.G. Wodehouse, I wasn’t even tempted to read it. I heard many times how amazing it was, but
the thought of actually reading it never crossed my mind. Then a former student gave me a copy of the
book. Now, as I know I have noted
before, I do read books which are given to me as gifts, so I was suddenly faced
with the clash of general rules: 1) Never Read Biographies; 2) Always Read
Books Given to You as a Gift.
Solution: Plane Book. I took it on my recent trip to a conference in
Halifax. (Halifax review: a really dull city. Sort of like the boring parts of Boston. I have no idea why anyone would ever go there
for vacation.)
Much to my surprise, I enjoyed the book. (The book is cleverly titled Wodehouse: A
Life. McCrum seems to have received
the memo that requires all books to have a colon and subtitle. After all, if it had just been titled Wodehouse,
we might have thought it was Wodehouse: A Death.) It wasn’t hard to figure out why I enjoyed
reading it—any book which has extensive excerpts from Wodehouse’s prose is
bound to have extensive parts which are funny, really funny. But, even with all the Wodehousian excerpts,
by the end, I was really glad to be done.
The book is at its best when talking about his fiction. The endless details about his missteps in
WWII just weren't that interesting—I understand why documenting what happened
is really important in a biography of the man, but that doesn't mean I enjoyed
reading the documentation. Yes, Wodehouse
was really silly. Yes, the Nazis took advantage
of a naif. Yes, the British public was understandably
outraged. Yawn.
I followed up reading the biography with reading Jeeves and
the Feudal Spirit. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I have read this
particular Jeeves and Wooster story. (It’s
hard to be sure, since the basic plot of every Jeeves and Wooster story is the
same.) What fascinated me was reading
this book right after reading the biography had a curious side effect—I could see
all the wires in the development of the plot.
Wodehouse writes in a careless, off-hand way (part of his extraordinary
talent), but after reading all about Wodehouse, I noticed the craftsmanship in putting
together the story. Seeing the
understructure, I can also say that this Jeeves and Wooster novel is not one of
his best—the problem/solution dynamic is more serially organized (problem1-solution1-problem2-solution2-etc)
than overlapping (problem1-problem2-problem3-solution to problem
2-problem4-etc.). But, and this is the
amazing thing about Wodehouse’s career, even this book is still stunning in its
ability to show us part of the human condition.
People don’t laugh enough. Oddly, as we learn in Wodehouse: A Life,
Wodehouse himself didn’t laugh enough.
Life is Funny. Wodehouse shows us
that Life is Funny. So, if you haven’t read
Wodehouse lately, do so soon. A
Wodehouse book cannot fail to help put everything back into perspective. Which is also, by the way, the best explanation
of why the story of Wodehouse and the Nazis should be seen as a comedy of
errors. Yes, the Nazis were evil, and yes,
Wodehouse was a useful idiot, but even still, we should be able to laugh at the
Nazis (think Hogan’s Heroes (would it even be possible to make that TV
show today?)) without being accused of believing they did not commit great
crimes.
And, just so this doesn't end on a note about the nature of evil, here is a biography I have long really liked.
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