(no subject)
Writing in the current issue of The New Yorker (not available online), Anthony Lane reveals himself to be a man after my own heart:Above all, I have pledged my allegiance to Uncle Fred, or, to do him the honor of his full title, Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of Ickenham, and the hero of much high-octane Wodehouse. Unlike Uncle Eric, he is no relation of mine -- a good thing, too, judging by the experience of his nephew Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton, who suffers from the presence of Lord Ickenham as other men are plagued by lumbago.
There is one short story, "Uncle Fred Flits By," that I try not to study in depth more than once a fortnight. It relates the occasion on which His Lordship, finding himself at an ominously loose end, brings an afternoon of Old Testament havoc down upon an unsuspecting London suburb, or, as he himself says, "I look about me, even in a foul hole like Mitching Hill, and I ask myself -- how can I leave this foul hole a better and happier foul hole than I found it?"
"Uncle Fred Flits By" is, indeed, a whirlwind in a pocket, a marvel of a short story in which Uncle Fred successfully impersonates the owner of a house, a neighbor, and a man from the bird shop, and would have cheerfully assayed the parrot had the need arisen. I cannot claim, as Lane does, to have read it two hundred times, or even as much as "The Clicking of Cuthbert" or "The Fiery Wooing of Mordred," but it is one of my favorite stories. Uncle Fred himself is my favorite Wodehousian character (in fact, I aspire to assume his mantle and spread sweetness and light); this is his only appearance in a short story (there are just four novels). I must admit that I never much cared for the Wooster stories -- Jeeves was far too deus ex machina. I much prefer the divine wind of Uncle Fred's kamikaze missions.
There is one short story, "Uncle Fred Flits By," that I try not to study in depth more than once a fortnight. It relates the occasion on which His Lordship, finding himself at an ominously loose end, brings an afternoon of Old Testament havoc down upon an unsuspecting London suburb, or, as he himself says, "I look about me, even in a foul hole like Mitching Hill, and I ask myself -- how can I leave this foul hole a better and happier foul hole than I found it?"
"Uncle Fred Flits By" is, indeed, a whirlwind in a pocket, a marvel of a short story in which Uncle Fred successfully impersonates the owner of a house, a neighbor, and a man from the bird shop, and would have cheerfully assayed the parrot had the need arisen. I cannot claim, as Lane does, to have read it two hundred times, or even as much as "The Clicking of Cuthbert" or "The Fiery Wooing of Mordred," but it is one of my favorite stories. Uncle Fred himself is my favorite Wodehousian character (in fact, I aspire to assume his mantle and spread sweetness and light); this is his only appearance in a short story (there are just four novels). I must admit that I never much cared for the Wooster stories -- Jeeves was far too deus ex machina. I much prefer the divine wind of Uncle Fred's kamikaze missions.