My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Every once in a while, I realize I am on a certain "kick" reading-wise. It could be, say, history stuff, or politics/economics/current events, or religious/spiritual, or travel stuff, or whatever. It is at that moment when I put whatever reading plans I may have had in the deep freeze.

I am hardly a reading snob--I read back issues of National Lampoon--but I always look worringly at people who read only the same sort of stuff, book in and book out. Only westerns, or only detective stuff or only sci-fi, etc. (Nobody's ever asked me, but I am of the opinion such people are doing nothing more than daydreaming, and passively at that.) That can't be good for your brain.

So, having caught myself in a bit of monotony, I returned, for the purposes of cleansing my reading soul, to The Master.

For my money, there is no greater writer in the history of the English language than P.G. Wodehouse. Not Shakespeare, not James ::shudder:: Joyce*, not Keats, Byron, Shelley, Pound, Eliot, Twain, Melville or even Douglas Adams. Wodehouse, in the parlance of Wolfe's The Right Stuff, sits alone atop the pyramid.

Part of the marvel about Wodehouse is how consistently funny he is, book after book after book. (The guy wrote for 70 years nonstop, and died just as he was about to complete his 92nd* book) But a bigger part is the sheer brilliance of his craftsmanship with the language. Anyone who is an avid reader (or, more dauntingly, an aspiring writer) can look at his prose and stand agape, stunned and stung by the monumental genius.

Just peruse this gem, plucked at random:

"Directly I managed to tear myself away that night and get home, I made up my mind that this was jolly well the last time that I went about with Motty. The only time I met him late at night after that was once when I passed the door of a fairly low-down sort of restaurant and had to step aside to dodge him as he sailed through the air en route for the opposite pavement, with a muscular sort of looking chap peering out after him with a kind of gloomy satisfaction.

In a way, I couldn't help sympathizing with the fellow. He had about four weeks to have the good time that ought to have been spread over about ten years, and I didn't wonder at his wanting to be pretty busy. I should have been just the same in his place. Still, there was no denying that it was a bit thick. If it hadn't been for the thought of Lady Malvern and Aunt Agatha in the background, I should have regarded Motty's rapid work with an indulgent smile. But I couldn't get rid of the feeling that, sooner or later, I was the lad who was scheduled to get it behind the ear. And what with brooding on this prospect, and sitting up in the old flat waiting for the familiar footstep, and putting it to bed when it got there, and stealing into the sick-chamber next morning to contemplate the wreckage, I was beginning to lose weight. Absolutely becoming the good old shadow, I give you my honest word. Starting at sudden noises and whatnot."

That was literally yanked at random. The books (novels and short stories) are sodden with this sort of luminous prose. Orotundity and jazz-age vernacular collide amiably, quotes (straight and mangled) marble and leaven the text, characters all have dimension and depth, implausibility is suspended gingerly.

I simply cannot recommend Wodehouse enough. It's good for what ails you.

Always.

-J.

* Who is, however, the single most overrated writer in the history of the English language. This is not subject for debate.
** In 1999 there was a a poll conducted about the 100 greatest books of the 20th Century. National Review said about this: "P.G. Wodehouse wrote 92 books. What we want to know is which books are the other 8."