I was in the mood for something frivolous yesterday (since rumors of my employer's takeover had been flying for a week, with no official announcements), so I went to check on my unread Wodehouses. I had four of them, all minor (The Coming of Bill, anyone?), so I picked this one, since it was from 1942 -- Wodehouse's prime period.And it's just about what you'd expect: a pleasant, completely entertaining but lightweight romantic comedy about impostors and jewel thieves, semi-amnesiac lords posing as butlers and raw-foods health faddists, all leading up to the proverbial happy ending.
There are still probably two dozen Wodehouse books I've never read, and I'm sure I'll need each one of them as I get to them. He provided mankind a great service, and I don't think he was ever adequately thanked.
As Evelyn Waugh said, "Wodehouse's idyllic world can never stale. He will continue to release future generations from captivity that may be more irksome than our own. He has made a world for us to live in and delight in."
Well, exactly. And this isn't even one of the really good ones.
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