I know there are people who probably have read more Wodehouse works, know more about his personal life and history, have a deeper understanding of his place in British and world literature … but, man, I don’t think anyone can claim to appreciate more than I do the feeling of simply immersing oneself in the most recently acquired piece of Wodehousian scribbling and finding as much pure enjoyment and satisfaction in every last nuance, pen stroke, descriptor, quip, aside, strategic omission, quirky character trait, silly self-seriousness … I’d better stop here before the list eats up too much memory on the server.
My point is, Wodehouse is my go-to anytime I’m needing a literary pick-me-up, and so this biography was a long time coming. (P.S. I just visited his Long Island home, neighborhood, and grave this past summer, took the walk that he took on the daily to the Post Office in the latter part of his career, and reverently donated my precious G2 .07 Blue Pilot Gel Pen to his headstone … so, yeah, you may have me beat in your Wodehouse fandom on many fronts, but I’m thinking I may be the only one to hit that unique, ritualistic, Plum pilgrimage!)
Rather than a straight-forward biography, something that would be far too boring and non-P.G. Wodehousian (who actually, with a single exception, lived a fairly boring life), Sophie Ratcliffe has gathered together relevant and timely letters written by the master himself to various friends, associates, family members, and business colleagues and organizes them chronologically as they relate to specific periods of his writing career and life. She introduces us into each decade of his life (give or take) with a brief explanation of what happens to him and with whom he corresponds, then she gets out of the way and lets Wodehouse do the talking. What a delightful way to get to know someone, especially someone as prolific in scribbling as Wodehouse himself.
What emerges is someone that is strongly passionate about his job. For all the silliness in his writing, I don’t know that you will find someone more serious about his writing. The ridiculous plotlines, the buffoonish characters, the zany situations … all of them are meticulously mulled about and fussed over, none of them are thrown out there frivolously as cheap money grabs. Details, for example, about where a politician might plausibly meet with his political partners to play out a ludicrous scheme, are researched with the care of someone writing an investigative report. Whether that particular plot point lands or not (I’m not sure it even made the final cut), that kind of loving devotion to his craft says loads more about his ultimate decades of continuous success than anything else.
Some of the most fun aspects of the reading were seeing Wodehouse talk up the next novel he was working on in some letter, and then I would giddily recognize it from having read it (Oh! This is where that character started. Or, This is the start of these kinds of stories!). How cool it is to see the beginnings of the writing process work their way through a genius mind. Then, maybe even more fun, was seeing the titles of works that I had not yet read and then pausing my reading to pick those up to read. Talk about your solid book recommendations! (I eventually had to stop this method because I needed to actually finish the biography at some point, and pausing for each book he mentions that I haven’t read meant that it would probably take me as many years to get through it as he lived … and I don’t think I have the time for that!)
Other gems garnered from this biography were his non-novel/short story writing careers. Through his years working in Hollywood, Wodehouse takes away some of the glitz of that burgeoning business and reveals a lot of their general incompetence (as he is paid to basically do nothing, or to revise dialogue just to have his revisions jettisoned). Wodehouse’s working on Broadway constitutes a huge part of his life that is not as recognizable today because of the shifting nature of Broadway shows. Yet his name mingled (as he did) with the greats: Rogers & Hammerstein, George Gershwin, Guy Bolton, Jerome Kern, even Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice (towards the end of his career). Had he not written a single novel, Wodehouse still would have left a mark (albeit not as glaringly enduring) on the entertainment industry with his talents.
The devastatingly sad Wodehouse experience from World War II is aptly covered in this biography, and remains a heart-wrenching sample of the passionate irrationality of war-time extremes of propaganda and anti-propaganda. Wodehouse, living in France at the time of WWII and then captured by the Nazis and sent to an internment camp (and writing some silly stories while there), then manages to secure his release by turning sixty, is offered to record some radio programs in Berlin. Wodehouse agrees and records some perfectly harmless recordings detailing the silly side of internment while managing to avoid criticizing his captors. This is somehow labeled as traitorous, and when Wodehouse is finally able to leave the continent once the war is over, he is shocked by the outrage his benign recordings invoked. He would never return to England again. What a loss for them!
Instead, he becomes an American (another one of our greatest victories from that war), lives in New York, then finally settles comfortably on Long Island (the home I visited). From here, Ms. Ratcliffe jumps decades in a seeming wink of the eye, Wodehouse’s knighthood and final years zip past with hardly a mention and then it all ends.
I suppose I just did not want to let go of Plum after being so invested in him for so long, but perhaps Ms. Ratcliffe felt that all of the major beats of Wodehouse’s personal life and career had come and gone already, and she probably had a length limit from her publishers … but still. Ending so quickly forces the negative experience of WWII to loom disproportionately through the shortened final decades of his life, and his redemption in the form of knighthood is barely mentioned in the notes and only obtusely referenced in the letters. I would be shocked if the correspondence we read are the only ones where he wrote about it.
Ms. Ratcliffe’s insistence on only including Wodehouse’s writings and never what other people wrote to him is a) understandable given length restrictions as well the focus of the biography itself; and b) frustrating. I mean, who cares if it isn’t Plum’s specific writing itself, I want to see the letter from the Queen Mother to Wodehouse! Or from some of the other famous authors he corresponded with (i.e., Agatha Christie, George Orwell, Arthur Conan Doyle, etcetera). Still, it’s a small qualm. In principle, I get it.
And overall, what a lovely way to get to know the boring life of a vastly amusing and immensely talented individual. You could not do this with a lot of biographies, and yet perhaps more biographers should find a way to write about their subjects in ways that are most fitting to the particular talents, life, and experiences of the people they write on.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, after having charged through that Wodehouse biography, I’ve got A LOT of titles I need to go back and find to add to my inexhaustible reading list!