Pure Genius

By doing this it might appear as if I’m doing something which Stephen Fry clearly said one shouldn’t do; and I agree with him wholeheartedly. To quote him verbatim, “You don’t analyse such sunlit perfection. You just bask in its warmth and splendour.” Even to be true to myself, however, that is not what I am trying to do. I simply find it very irresistible to put a few words down after such a long time of blissful basking.

The novels of P. G. Wodehouse are fantastic in all senses of the term. From a broader perspective, they are all tales of people and occurrences so fantastical that they induce spontaneous, sparkling laughter. They do not comment on any particular feature of society, either desirable or unpleasant. They don’t bring neglected sections into the spotlight through heartwarming narrations. They don’t function around really awe-inspiring, brilliant ideas. They are simple stories of waiters who talk about their horse-racing earnings with random ladies because they just have to talk to someone, and of lovers who scour the world and back for strawberries for their beloved and end up eating the irresistible little blighters themselves. One of the most difficult tasks being making something so simple so perpetually enjoyable, it is a real feat for which Wodehouse deserves all the commendation in the world.

You’re never too old, too mature, or too dignified to crack up over a truly good joke. The thing that makes his jokes so delicious is that they are very different from the ones we’re used to chuckle-emoji about. They are not even always explicit. The whole proceedings are full to the brim of wit. The fantastical extreme nature of the situations his protagonists end up in does the trick all right. We get seamlessly entangled in the lives of the characters in which Fate is always up to something. The events may be devastating to the characters at times, but to us as observers who easily understand the moon-gravity of it all, even their desperation seems comical. When characters moan and fret about their engagements, or lack of them, you laugh at their plight. You grin at the situation which grows exponentially more complicated for them. You jest at their ineptitude at dealing with it. You smirk at the liberties those high-and-mighty characters take because you know they are really in for it sometime in the story. You chuckle at the dry wit and slapstick and you beam at the way it is described. And then you smile, and keep smiling for a long time, because in a Wodehouse novel nothing bad ever happens.

His stories take you into the lives of high-table members of the British aristocratic society. You come across the lifestyle of a group called the ‘idle rich’ and are effortlessly engaged in the ways they wear out their days. His protagonists are members of high clubs, attend prestigious parties and have their tea with a slice of lemon brought to them in bed by their butlers. They go for long vacations to their friends, distant relatives and friends of distant relatives and make merry together. And, incredibly yet perfectly, all their lives are intertwined. You cannot put down a Wodehouse novel without at some point jumping with delight at the mention of some other novel’s character and exclaiming “Hey, I know that guy” much to the bewilderment of your family. In his world, everything takes place in London and the cute little hamlets surrounding it.

And the language is - no better word for it - yummy. Like there are a number of words, phrases and expressions you find yourself saying out loud when you’re in a Shakespearean mood, Wodehouse has got his own collection which you can never utter with a straight face or without feeling impish. One of my favourites is this mint candy of a word, ‘blighter’, which his characters usually apply to almost anything. It has an air of pure English about it, in that it is a beautiful way of expressing surface negativity in the most dignified manner. In a world full of damned things, blighters make a nice little change. Then there are his greetings and his addresses which smack of intimacy and at the same time, a casual take on things. It could be dangerous for your social well-being if you try to turn your attention to worldly matters when you are still getting up from “What ho, my good egg?” and things like that.

After allowing his characters to grow on me for many months and then some, I finally understand why people might want to tell him that his stories made them forget their grief. The crises of his characters are so unlike our own that we have to laugh at them. In my own case I can categorically state that I never remember the state of mind I was in before starting one of his novels, but I have no trouble recalling the state of mind I am in afterwards because it’s always the same. To me the ultimate happiness would be the opportunity of being a carefree shadow of any one of his characters and observing them for eternity. Now I can also understand why Stephen Fry told us not to analyse it. It’s not just because it is so perfect, but also because by doing so you spoil its glorious purpose. Can we, as human beings, just sit tight and not analyse something for once? I urge all fellow Wodehouse readers to leave all their rationality and their tendency to try and make sense of everything at home before you enter his garden. Just enjoy it. We all deserve this once in a while. And thanks to a godsend of a person like him and the throng of storytellers he continues to inspire there will always be something to laugh, chuckle, grin and smile at in this world.