Years ago I tried reading a Wooster and Jeeves book by noted British writer P. G. Wodehouse. I set it down, got rid of it, and shook my head wondering how anyone read his books. However, last week I read three Wodehouse books featuring the inimitable Jeeves and the hapless aristocrat Bertie Wooster. This time I got it, I laughed, I admired the genius of Wodehouse. I am hunting more of his books this weekend.

Perhaps one needs to be in a certain state of mind to appreciate Wodehouse, or have reached a certain age, or have recently visited London and absorbed some of its history. I know not the reason, but the pure fantasy world of Wooster and Jeeves slots perfectly into the imagined Britain between the wars, so familiar from reading Agatha Christie, or Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. The language, speckled with strange slang and archaic terms, brilliant quotes, and conversation so ornate as to be unreal, brought a smile to my lips on nearly every page.

Carry on, Wodehouse!