On my father's bookshelves, tucked between yet another novel by Somerset Maugham and J.B. Priestley's account of a journey to Mexico with his archaeologist wife, was a copy of Carry On, Jeeves. I had never heard of P.G. Wodehouse and racing through these stories of a master and his manservant I was surprised to find that, so far as I could tell, they were seriously funny and devoid of serious meaning. There was no more Wodehouse at home; my father took a dim view of frivolous books. But my local library took a dim view of the contemporary unless it was slightly unfashionable or too popular to ignore - and the shortage of more recent fiction left room for two whole shelves of Wodehouse. I read nearly 50 books before the supply ran out. I wouldn't really recommend this: prolonged exposure to Wodehouse can stop you taking anything seriously. Worse still, it can stop other people taking you seriously.

LRB 3 November 2005 | PDF Download