My Book Shelves (7): 'The Inimitable Jeeves,' by P.G.Wodehouse [15 Nov 2022]

 OK. So we need to talk about P.G.Wodehouse. In particular we need to talk about Jeeves and Wooster. I’m going to make the perfectly reasonable claim that the Jeeves novels (and short stories) represent the epitome of comic fiction. Never been bettered. Never likely to be. Oh, and please don’t try to disagree with me – it will only make me upset. And yes, I know I made almost the same assertion about Damon Runyon, (see my Book Shelves (2)) but I can quite comfortably hold two contradictory views – especially where writing is concerned, and on this I’m indisputably correct – they were both the best. (Curious isn’t it, that Wodehouse and Runyon were contemporaries writing comic fiction during the depression. And a century later no one comes near them.)

Anyway. Jeeves and Wooster. You know who they are. The genius begins with the invention of these two central characters – perhaps the best yin-and-yang contrast in fiction – Bertie Wooster the utterly idiotic, upper-class, put-upon (but generally benign) single man-about-town; and Jeeves the cool-headed, supernaturally intelligent, never to be out-smarted valet. There is a definite bromance going on – a friendship of unequals, that lends itself perfectly to the farcical situation comedies that unravel in the stories. But the second, and greater genius, is Wodehouse’s decision to make Bertie the narrator. Everything is told in Bertie’s voice – and what a voice. It’s a jovial, colloquial, laddish style, wholly belonging to the 1930s (or thereabouts), immediately redolent of the privilege and class of the era, and yet laden with comic potential.

Here are the opening paragraphs of ‘The Inimitable Jeeves.’

Morning, Jeeves," I said.

"Good morning, sir," said Jeeves.

He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Just right, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not too weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove, Jeeves. So dashed competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I mean to say, take just one small instance. Every other valet I've ever had used to barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep, causing much misery; but Jeeves seems to know when I'm awake by a sort of telepathy. He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life. Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's day.

"How's the weather, Jeeves?"

"Exceptionally clement, sir."

"Anything in the papers?"

"Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing."

"I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for the two o'clock race this afternoon. How about it?"

"I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."

That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn't say, but he knows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose my little all against his advice, but not now.

"Talking of shirts," I said, "have those mauve ones I ordered arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. I sent them back."

"Sent them back?"

"Yes, sir. They would not have become you."

I think it’s this blustery Wooster prose that makes TV and film adaptations of the stories slightly disappointing. Of course the screenwriter can give Bertie dialogue in the appropriate style, but you can’t tell the story that way. So don’t waste time with screen versions. You need to go back to the books. Settle down in a corner and try to make sure no one is in earshot  (your laughter will annoy them). And give the books a go. Any one will do. Here is some more from the same chapter:

"You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning."

"Decidedly, sir."

"Spring and all that."

"Yes, sir."

"In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove."

"So I have been informed, sir."

"Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I'm going into the Park to do pastoral dances."

I don't know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky's a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there's a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.  

Here (below) are just a few of the Jeeves and Wooster books for you to be getting on with. They are all five star novels. And there are plenty more. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (2): 'On Broadway,' by Damon Runyon. [20th Oct 2022]

 Runyon On Broadway: *****

OK - I’m a realist. I know I won’t convince you to pick up a book of Damon Runyon stories unless you’re already a fan. Why would you? These were comic tales written in the 1930s. They’re not terribly relevant to the world of 2022. They are written in a curiously unique style which takes some getting used to, and they employ a vocabulary of jargon that is never adequately translated. They may even be out of print. So I get it. However much I twist your metaphorical arm you’ll find something else to read first. But let me tell you, please, what you’re missing.   

"On Broadway." *****

These stories are masterpieces of literature.  Each one is an exercise in perfection. Damon Runyon was a newspaperman in New York during the prohibition years. He wrote around 100 short stories during this time. They are not long. An average story is about twelve pages. But in those pages Runyon creates rich comic characters and extraordinary situations, and every story resolves itself with a gratifying (if occasionally murderous) twist.  Various collections of his ‘Broadway’ stories were published – but today the cream of the cream appear in two volumes – ‘On Broadway’ with around 45 stories, and ‘From First to Last,’ which includes 33. The stories unravel among the low life hoodlums and criminal fraternity of New York, all struggling to make ends meet in the depression. They, (the characters who inhabit this world) generally assemble in the speakeasies and illegal hooch dens around Broadway, or at Mindy’s restaurant, or at one horse racetrack or another. Every story is written in the first person, from the perspective of a narrator who is never named, who claims absolute innocence of any offence and who feigns distaste for lawbreaking or alcohol, but who inexplicably seems to be on friendly terms with every suspicious character in the city, and who rails against the quality of the whisky at Good Time Charley’s . And every story is written in the present tense in a spoken vernacular where all men are ‘guys’ and all women are ‘dolls’ (hence the movie ‘Guys and Dolls,’) and no one goes by an ordinary name. The kind of people you might meet in Mindy’s could include Little Isadore, Spanish John, Harry the Horse, or the Lemon Drop Kid. Or Bookie Bob, or Benny South Street, or Dave the Dude, or The Seldom Seen Kid, or Joe the Joker. They will all be up to no good.

Let me give you the opening lines of some of the stories:

Off or on I know Feet Samuels a matter of eight or ten years up and down Broadway, and in and out, but I never have much truck with him because he is a guy I consider no dice.

(A Very Honourable Guy)

One night The Brain is walking me up and down outside Mindy’s restaurant, and speaking of this and that, when along comes a redheaded raggedy doll selling apples at five cents per copy.

(The Brain goes Home)

One cold winter afternoon I am standing at the bar in Good Time Charley’s little drum in West Forty-Ninth Street, partaking of a mixture of rock candy and rye whisky, and this is a most surprising thing for me to be doing as I am by no means a rum pot, and very seldom engage in any alcoholic beverages in any way … when the door opens and who comes in but a guy by the name of Blondy Swanson.

(The Three Wise Guys)

One morning along about four bells , I am standing in front of Mindy’s restaurant on Broadway with a guy by the name of Regret, who has this name because it seems he wins a very large bet the year the Whitney filly, Regret, grabs the Kentucky Derby, and can never forget it.

That's how they begin. Our innocent narrator is standing around minding his own business when who should drop by with a story but ... 

Runyon’s Broadway stories bristle with wit and humanity. If you want to dip in and try a couple (maybe they’re available online somewhere) – try ‘Little Miss Marker,’ or ‘Sense of Humor,’ or ‘The Lily of St Pierre.’ 

 

“The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's how the smart money bets”

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

"From First to Last." *****

My Map Pins (29): New York City (posted April 2021)

My map pin posts are about stories as well as places. And here is a story about my first ever visit to New York City. I remember just how excited I was; excited but irritated. This was a business trip, and an annoyingly brief one. I wouldn’t have any time to explore. Damn! I was on a flight from Atlanta, due into La Guardia around nine o’clock at night. I had a meeting at Mount Sinai Hospital at ten thirty the next morning, and I’d need to rush away from that to get to JFK for my flight back to London. I was resigned to seeing next to nothing of the city. But I had a stroke of luck. I struck up a conversation on the plane with the man in the seat next to mine. He was a New Yorker, now living in Atlanta. I told him about my disappointment, not being able to explore. ‘To hell with that,’ he said. ‘Did you never hear about the city that never sleeps?’ He wrote down his name and the address of his hotel. He was staying (can you believe this?) at the Waldorf Astoria on Central Park. ‘Come and find me there at 11 o’clock tonight,’ he told me. ‘I’ll be waiting in reception. You have the rest of your life to catch up on the sleep.’

What could I do? I barely had time to check into my hotel and then I went to find him. (His name was Charles, by the way.) He took me on a walking tour. We did Times Square, and Broadway, and 7^th Avenue, and 42^nd Street. He showed me the Empire State and Macy’s, and the Flatiron Building, and Madison Square Gardens. And so much more. We walked all the way up to Greenwich Village, and Soho, and we dropped into Grand Central Station. Wow! We walked the leather off our shoes, but there was no stopping this guy. He was loving this as much as I was. We had a swift beer in a little speakeasy, and off we went again. There was something on almost every corner we had to see. Theatres. Skyscrapers. The PanAm building. FAO Schwarz. All the shops were closed, but what the heck. ‘They’re way cheaper at night,’ he said. I told him I was a huge fan of Damon Runyon so he pointed out Mindy’s for me. We walked past the UN, back to Central Park, up by the Guggenheim museum, and he still wasn’t done. He showed me the Dakota Building and Strawberry Fields, and the Natural History Museum, and a load of his favourite parts of the park. ‘Isn’t it dangerous walking in Central Park at night?’ I asked him. ‘Not for two six-foot guys,’ he said.

I got back to my hotel at three forty five am. We had been walking for more than four hours. I’m guessing we had walked maybe ten miles. The next morning, following Charles’ instructions, I took a yellow cab to the World Trade Centre and an elevator to the top, and I got to see the whole city emerging from an early morning mist. And I still made my meeting.

I never kept Charles’ contact details. Which is a shame. Because I owe him. Big time.

The photos are from a trip with my family a year or so later. We did the World Trade Centre again. That’s me and Jon in the pictures. That was a great trip too.

The What3Words is Times Square. It’s as good a place as any to start.

What3words: café.ahead.intelligible

what3words /// The simplest way to talk about location

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com