I started mid-reading review, which is out of tradition for me. I add books on Goodreads mostly AFTER I finish reading them. But, was compelled to share some of Wodehouse's amusing sentences.
"It appears that there is harmless innocent American of the name of Wilbur Trout whose only fault is that he marries rather too often, which is the sort of thing that might happen to anyone."
"Thomas Hardy would have seen in the whole affair one more of life's little ironies and on having it drawn to its attention would have got twenty thousand words of a novel out of it."
"Like a serpent, although perhaps not altogether like a serpent, for serpents do draw the line somewhere, her brother Galahad had introduced another impostor into the castle."
"Once, when they were children, Galahad had fallen into deep pond in the kitchen garden, and just as he was about to sink for the third time one of the gardeners had come along and pulled him out. She was brooding now on thoughtless folly of that misguided gardener. Half the trouble in the world, she was thinking, was caused by people not letting well alone."
"One of the lesson life teaches us is never to look for instant bonhomie from someone we have rammed in the small of the back and bumped down two flight of stairs. That sort of thing does something to a man."
"Except in the matter of marrying blondes he was not an adventurous man, and contemplation of the shape of things to come, as sketched out by Vanessa, had had the worst effect on his nervous system."
"Not too many brains, either, which was an added attraction, for she mistrusted clever men."
"Wilbur's room was the one in which, according to legend, an Emsworth of the fifteenth century had dismembered his wife with a battle axe, as husbands in those days were so apt to do when strain of married life became too much for them."
"As Lady Constance seated herself at the desk and took pen in hand, the Duke's emotions were mixed. A proud man, he resented having his love letters written for him, but on the other hand he could not but feel that in the present crisis a ghost writer would come in uncommonly handy, for he had to admit that, left to his devices, he would not even know how to start the thing, let alone fill the four sheets which could be looked on as the irreducible minimum. He was a great writer of letters to the Times, the Government could not move a step without hearing from him, but this one called for gifts of which he knew himself to be deficient. It was, accordingly, with approval that he watched his collaborator's pen racing over the paper, and when she had finished, he took the manuscript from her with pleasurable anticipation of a treat in store.
It was a pity, therefore, that perusal of it should have brought out all the destructive critic in him. He scanned the document with dismay, and delivered his verdict with asperity. He might have been one of those Scotch reviewers Byron disliked so much.
"This', he said, his eyes popping as they had rarely popped before, 'is the most god-awful slush I ever read!"
If Lady Constance was piqued, she didn't show it. She may have raised an eyebrow, but scarcely so that it could be noticed. Like all authors, she knew her output was above criticism."