Well, its finally happened. I’ve been reading P.G. Wodehouse for well over a decade now and I’ve loved his work since I first cracked open The Code of the Woosters. I’ve been proselytizing for his cause for just as long, and it has proved to be an enjoyable, if ill-paying enterprise. Until now. The good folks over at the Sunday Currents section of The Philadelphia Inquirer have let me preach to my hearts content (with a local twist for garnish).
Unfortunately, this will likely be my last Inquirer column for a long while. The paper has been struggling for a long time and union negotiations with the new management are highly contentious.
In such turbulent times The Inquirer does not have the freelance budget to keep people like me around. This has happened before and its possible that the drought won’t last. I certainly hope it doesn’t. Who else will I send my Murial Spark op-ed pitch to?
Click below for a taste of my latest, and possible final, Inquirer column.
Once every two months, in the recesses of Society Hill’s Dark Horse tavern, a band of devotees gathers to discuss the works of British humorist P.G. Wodehouse and, occasionally, hurl a meditative crusty bread roll at interlopers.
Well, maybe not that last part. The silly young aristocrats who populate Wodehouse’s works often resort to food fights in preference to, say, working (a sensible policy). But the members of the Philadelphia branch of the Wodehouse Society (TWS) endeavor to leave the bar’s walls unstained by their disputes, such as they are.
It is hard to imagine an author whose work is better calibrated to sideline strife and bring about that peace-among-men stuff. Most writers, when compelled to craft a plot, tend toward the bleak and horrid: murderous impulses, unfaithful spouses, wasting illnesses, and grim death. Wodehouse’s novels are the literary equivalent of a champagne cocktail: light, highly enjoyable, and likely to give the imbiber a rosy outlook on the world.