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adam_mcphee's Reviews (2.87k)
Beg to report, sir, that this book puts Kafka in the shithouse.
"Grandpa used to say that when he was a young man he would get an erection as soon as his feet hit Cape Breton."
She had the face of a madonna and a heart made of dollar bills!
Amazing. Great dialogue and tons of action. And it never feels ridiculous even when the characters do something as contrived as literally staring into the abyss. Up there with the best of Jim Thompson, easily.
Amazing. Great dialogue and tons of action. And it never feels ridiculous even when the characters do something as contrived as literally staring into the abyss. Up there with the best of Jim Thompson, easily.
What happens to your dog when he takes off on you and you can't find him and he comes home covered in mud? Grant Morrison's answer involves a clandestine weapons program and robotic pet mecha armour. Frank Quitely's art is, as always, stunning.
He continued to goggle.
'Are you Wooster?' he asked, in what seemed to me a rather awed way.
'Still Wooster, Stoker, old man,' I said cheerily. 'First, last, and all the time Bertram Wooster.'
Favourite lines:
On a story's scenery:
On primogeniture:
On civilization:
On socialism:
This successor to Jeeves had been sent down by the agency in London, and I'm bound to say he wasn't the fellow I'd have selected if I had had time to go round to the place and make a choice in person. Not at all the man of my dreams. A melancholy blighter, with a long, thin, pimple-studded face and deep, brooding eyes, he had shown himself averse from the start to that agreeable chit-chat between employer and employed to which the society of Jeeves had accustomed me. I had been trying to establish cordial relations ever since he had arrived, but with no success. Outwardly he was all respectfulness, but inwardly you could see that he was a man who was musing on the coming Social Revolution and looked on Bertram as a tyrant and an oppressor.
'Yes, Brinkley, I shall dine out.'
He said nothing, merely looking at me as if he were measuring me for my lamp-post.
'I have had a fatiguing day, and I feel a need for the lights and the wine. Both of these, I should imagine, may be had in Bristol. And there ought to be a show of some kind playing there, don't you think? It's one of the Number One touring towns.'
He sighed slightly. All this talk of my going to shows was distressing him. What he really wanted was to see me sprinting down Park Lane with the mob after me with dripping knives.
'I shall take the car and drive over there. You can have the evening off.'
'Very good, sir,' he moaned.
I gave it up. The man annoyed me. I hadn't the slightest objection to his spending his time planning massacres for the bourgeoisie, but I was dashed if I could see why he couldn't do it with a bright and cheerful smile. Dismissing him with a gesture, I went round to the garage and got the car out.
On his effect on women:
And this bit where he talks a child:
'What!'
'Yes. There's a smell at the Dower House.'
'Even though you've left it?' I said, in my keen way.
He was not amused.
'You needn't try to be funny. If you really want to know, I expect it's my mice.'
'Your what?'
'I've started breeding mice and puppies. And, of course, they niff a bit,' he added in a dispassionate sort of way. 'But mother thinks it's the drains. Can you give me five shillings?'
I simply couldn't follow his train of thought. The way his conversation flitted about gave me that feeling you get in dreams sometimes.
'Five shillings?'
'Five shillings.'
'What do you mean, five shillings?'
'I mean five shillings.'
'I dare say. But what I want to know is how have we suddenly got on to the subject? We were discussing mice, and you introduce this five shillings motif
'I want five shillings.'
'Admitting that you may possibly want that sum, why the dickens should I give it to you?'
'For protection.'
'What!'
'Protection.'
'What from?'
'Just protection.'
'You don't get any five shillings out of me.'
'Oh, all right.'
He sat silent for a space.
'Things happen to guys that don't kick in their protection money,' he said dreamily.
And on this note of mystery the conversation concluded, for we were moving up the drive of the Hall and on the steps I perceived Chuffy standing. I stopped the car and got out.
'Hallo, Bertie,' said Chuffy.
'Welcome to Chuffnell Hall,' I replied. I looked round. The kid had vanished. 'I say, Chuffy,' I said, 'young blighted Seabury. What about him?'
'What about him?'
'Well, if you ask me, I should say he had gone off his rocker. He's just been trying to touch me for five bob and babbling about protection.'
Chuffy laughed heartily, looking bronzed and fit.
'Oh, that. That's his latest idea.'
'How do you mean?'
'He's been seeing gangster films.'
The scales fell from my eyes.
'He's turned racketeer?'
'Yes. Rather amusing. He goes round collecting protection money from everybody according to their means. Makes a good thing out of it, too. Enterprising kid. I'd pay up if I were you. I have.'
I was shocked. Not so much at the information that the foul child had given this additional evidence of a diseased mind as that Chuffy should be exhibiting this attitude of amused tolerance. I eyed him keenly. Right from the start this morning I had thought his manner strange. Usually, when you meet him, he is brooding over his financial situation and is rather apt to greet you with the lack-lustre eye and the careworn frown.
'Are you Wooster?' he asked, in what seemed to me a rather awed way.
'Still Wooster, Stoker, old man,' I said cheerily. 'First, last, and all the time Bertram Wooster.'
Favourite lines:
On a story's scenery:
Spoiler
A thing I never know when I'm telling a story is how much scenery to bung in. I've asked one or two scriveners of my acquaintance, and their views differ. A fellow I met at a cocktail party in Bloomsbury said that he was all for describing kitchen sinks and frowsty bedrooms and squalor generally, but the beauties of Nature, no. Whereas, Freddie Oaker, of the Drones, who does tales of pure love for the weeklies under the pen-name of Alicia Seymour, once told me that he reckoned that flowery meadows in springtime alone were worth at least a hundred quid a year to him.On primogeniture:
Spoiler
One of the things, I must mention, which have always made poor old Chuffy's lot so hard is his aunt's attitude towards him. She has never quite been able to get over that matter of the succession. Seabury, you see, was not the son of Chuffy's late uncle, the fourth Baron: he was simply something Lady Chuffnell had picked up en route in the course of a former marriage and, consequently, did not come under the head of what the Peerage calls 'issue'. And, in matters of succession, if you aren't issue, you haven't a hope. When the fourth Baron pegged out, accordingly, it was Chuffy who copped the title and estates. All perfectly square and above board, of course, but you can't get women to see these things, and the relict's manner, Chuffy has often told me, was consistently unpleasant. She had a way of clasping Seabury in her arms and looking reproachfully at Chuffy as if he had slipped over a fast one on mother and child. Nothing actually said, you understand, but her whole attitude that of a woman who considers she has been the victim of sharp practice.On civilization:
Spoiler
Fortunately, the thing did not go beyond looks. Say what you like against civilization, it comes in dashed handy in a crisis like this. It may be a purely artificial code that keeps a father from hoofing his daughter's kisser when they are fellow guests at a house, but at this moment I felt that I could do with all the purely artificial codes that were going.On socialism:
Spoiler
'I shall dine out, Brinkley,' I said.This successor to Jeeves had been sent down by the agency in London, and I'm bound to say he wasn't the fellow I'd have selected if I had had time to go round to the place and make a choice in person. Not at all the man of my dreams. A melancholy blighter, with a long, thin, pimple-studded face and deep, brooding eyes, he had shown himself averse from the start to that agreeable chit-chat between employer and employed to which the society of Jeeves had accustomed me. I had been trying to establish cordial relations ever since he had arrived, but with no success. Outwardly he was all respectfulness, but inwardly you could see that he was a man who was musing on the coming Social Revolution and looked on Bertram as a tyrant and an oppressor.
'Yes, Brinkley, I shall dine out.'
He said nothing, merely looking at me as if he were measuring me for my lamp-post.
'I have had a fatiguing day, and I feel a need for the lights and the wine. Both of these, I should imagine, may be had in Bristol. And there ought to be a show of some kind playing there, don't you think? It's one of the Number One touring towns.'
He sighed slightly. All this talk of my going to shows was distressing him. What he really wanted was to see me sprinting down Park Lane with the mob after me with dripping knives.
'I shall take the car and drive over there. You can have the evening off.'
'Very good, sir,' he moaned.
I gave it up. The man annoyed me. I hadn't the slightest objection to his spending his time planning massacres for the bourgeoisie, but I was dashed if I could see why he couldn't do it with a bright and cheerful smile. Dismissing him with a gesture, I went round to the garage and got the car out.
On his effect on women:
Spoiler
I rose above the top of the desk, and Pauline shied like a frightened horse. It annoyed me, I confess. Bertram Wooster is not accustomed to causing convulsions in the gentler sex. As a matter of fact, usually when girls see me, they incline rather to the amused smile, or, on occasion, to the weary sigh and the despairing 'Oh, are you here again, Bertie?' But better even that than this stark horror.And this bit where he talks a child:
Spoiler
'Mother and I are living at the Hall again.''What!'
'Yes. There's a smell at the Dower House.'
'Even though you've left it?' I said, in my keen way.
He was not amused.
'You needn't try to be funny. If you really want to know, I expect it's my mice.'
'Your what?'
'I've started breeding mice and puppies. And, of course, they niff a bit,' he added in a dispassionate sort of way. 'But mother thinks it's the drains. Can you give me five shillings?'
I simply couldn't follow his train of thought. The way his conversation flitted about gave me that feeling you get in dreams sometimes.
'Five shillings?'
'Five shillings.'
'What do you mean, five shillings?'
'I mean five shillings.'
'I dare say. But what I want to know is how have we suddenly got on to the subject? We were discussing mice, and you introduce this five shillings motif
'I want five shillings.'
'Admitting that you may possibly want that sum, why the dickens should I give it to you?'
'For protection.'
'What!'
'Protection.'
'What from?'
'Just protection.'
'You don't get any five shillings out of me.'
'Oh, all right.'
He sat silent for a space.
'Things happen to guys that don't kick in their protection money,' he said dreamily.
And on this note of mystery the conversation concluded, for we were moving up the drive of the Hall and on the steps I perceived Chuffy standing. I stopped the car and got out.
'Hallo, Bertie,' said Chuffy.
'Welcome to Chuffnell Hall,' I replied. I looked round. The kid had vanished. 'I say, Chuffy,' I said, 'young blighted Seabury. What about him?'
'What about him?'
'Well, if you ask me, I should say he had gone off his rocker. He's just been trying to touch me for five bob and babbling about protection.'
Chuffy laughed heartily, looking bronzed and fit.
'Oh, that. That's his latest idea.'
'How do you mean?'
'He's been seeing gangster films.'
The scales fell from my eyes.
'He's turned racketeer?'
'Yes. Rather amusing. He goes round collecting protection money from everybody according to their means. Makes a good thing out of it, too. Enterprising kid. I'd pay up if I were you. I have.'
I was shocked. Not so much at the information that the foul child had given this additional evidence of a diseased mind as that Chuffy should be exhibiting this attitude of amused tolerance. I eyed him keenly. Right from the start this morning I had thought his manner strange. Usually, when you meet him, he is brooding over his financial situation and is rather apt to greet you with the lack-lustre eye and the careworn frown.
The Stories 'Buttercup Day' and 'Ukridge and the Old Stepper' are phenomenal. The Bingo Little stuff is okay and the other stories forgettable. I think Bingo comes out on top too easily for my liking. He just falls into it. Whereas Stanley Featherstone Ukridge is a straight up vagrant who dreams big but whose plans always fall through.
This one's a bit long but it shows how masterful Wodehouse is with Ukridge:
“Got what?”
”One of those thingummies.”
“Oh, these? Yes. There was a girl with a tray of them in the front garden. It’s Buttercup Day. In aid of something or other, I suppose.”
“It’s in aid of me,” said Ukridge, the soft smile developing into a face-splitting grin.
“What do you mean?”
“Corky, old horse, said Ukridge, motioning me to a chair, “the great thing in this world is to have a good, level business head. Many men in my position wanting capital and not seeing where they were going to get it, would have given up the struggle as a bad job. Why? Because they lacked Vision and the big, broad, flexible outlook. But what did I do? I sat down and thought. And after many hours of concentrated meditation I was rewarded with an idea. You remember that painful affair in Jermyn Street the other day—when that female bandit got into our ribs? You recall that neither of us knew what we had coughed up our good money for?”
“Well?”
“Well, laddie, it suddenly flashed upon me like an inspiration from above that nobody ever does know what they are coughing up for when they meet a girl with a tray of flags. I hit upon the great truth, old horse—one of the profoundest truths in this modern civilization of ours—that any given man, confronted by a pretty girl with a tray of flags, will automatically and without inquiry shove a coin in her box. So I got hold of a girl I know—a dear little soul, full of beans—and arranged for her to come here this afternoon. I confidently anticipate a clean-up on an impressive scale. The outlay on the pins and bits of paper was practically nil, so there is no overhead and all that comes in will be pure velvet.”
A strong pang shot through me.
“Do you mean to say,” I demanded with feeling, “that that half-crown of mine goes into your beastly pocket?”
“Half of it. Naturally my colleague and partner is in on the division. Did you really give half-a-crown?” said Ukridge, pleased. “It was like you, laddie. Generous to a fault. If everyone had your lavish disposition, this world would be a better, sweeter place.
“I suppose you realize,” I said, “that in about ten minutes at the outside your colleague and partner, as you call her, will be arrested for obtaining money under false pretences?”
“Not a chance.” ;
“After which, they will—thank God!—proceed to pinch you.”
“Quite impossible, laddie. I rely on my knowledge of human psychology. What did she say when she stung you?”
“I forget. ‘Buy a buttercup’ or something.”
“And then?”
“Then I asked what it was all about, and she said, ‘Buttercup Day’.”
“Exactly. And that’s all she will need to say to- anyone. Is it likely, is it reasonable to suppose, that even in these materialistic days Chivalry has sunk so low that any man will require to be told more, by a girl as pretty as that, than that it is Buttercup Day?” He walked to the window and looked out. “Ah! She’s come round into the back garden,” he said, with satisfaction. “She seems to be doing a roaring trade. Every second man is wearing a buttercup. She is now putting it across a curate, bless her heart.”
“And in a couple of minutes she will probably try to put it across a plain-clothes detective, and that will be the end.’
Ukridge eyed me reproachfully. “You persist in looking on the gloomy side, Corky. A little more of the congratulatory attitude is what I could wish to see in you, laddie. You do not appear to realize that your old friend’s foot is at last on the ladder that leads to wealth. Suppose—putting it at the lowest figure—I net four pounds out of this buttercup business. It goes on Caterpillar in the two o’clock selling race at Kempton. Caterpillar wins, the odds being—let us say—ten to one. Stake and winnings go on Bismuth for the Jubilee Cup, again at ten to one. There you have a nice, clean four hundred pounds of capital, ample for a man of keen business sense to build a fortune on. For, between ourselves, Corky, I have my eye on what looks like the investment of a lifetime.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I was reading about it the other day. A cat ranch out in America.”
“A cat ranch?”
”That’s it. You collect a hundred thousand cats. Each cat has twelve kittens a year. The skins range from ten cents each for the white ones to seventy-five for the pure black. That gives you twelve million skins per year to sell at an average price of thirty cents per skin, making your annual revenue at a conservative estimate three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. But, you will say, what about overhead expenses?”
“Will I?”
“That has all been allowed for. To feed the cats you start a rat ranch next door. The rats multiply four times as fast as cats, so if you begin with a million rats it gives you four rats per day per cat, which is plenty. You feed the rats on what is left over of the cats after removing the skins, allowing one-fourth of a cat per tat, the business thus becoming automatically self-supporting. The cats will eat the rats, the rats will eat the cats–”
On Australians:
...
(The Australian uncle) said that, though he wasn’t any too keen on matrimony as an institution, he was broad-minded enough to realize that there might quite possibly be women in the world unlike his late wife. Concerning whom, he added that the rabbit was not, as had been generally stated, Australia’s worst pest.
...
"Good God! When I was in Africa during the Boer War a platoon of Australians scrounged one of my cast-iron sheds one night, but I never expected that that sort of thing happened in England in peace-time.”
On wooing:
On scrounging:
This one's a bit long but it shows how masterful Wodehouse is with Ukridge:
Spoiler
“I see you’ve got one,” he said.“Got what?”
”One of those thingummies.”
“Oh, these? Yes. There was a girl with a tray of them in the front garden. It’s Buttercup Day. In aid of something or other, I suppose.”
“It’s in aid of me,” said Ukridge, the soft smile developing into a face-splitting grin.
“What do you mean?”
“Corky, old horse, said Ukridge, motioning me to a chair, “the great thing in this world is to have a good, level business head. Many men in my position wanting capital and not seeing where they were going to get it, would have given up the struggle as a bad job. Why? Because they lacked Vision and the big, broad, flexible outlook. But what did I do? I sat down and thought. And after many hours of concentrated meditation I was rewarded with an idea. You remember that painful affair in Jermyn Street the other day—when that female bandit got into our ribs? You recall that neither of us knew what we had coughed up our good money for?”
“Well?”
“Well, laddie, it suddenly flashed upon me like an inspiration from above that nobody ever does know what they are coughing up for when they meet a girl with a tray of flags. I hit upon the great truth, old horse—one of the profoundest truths in this modern civilization of ours—that any given man, confronted by a pretty girl with a tray of flags, will automatically and without inquiry shove a coin in her box. So I got hold of a girl I know—a dear little soul, full of beans—and arranged for her to come here this afternoon. I confidently anticipate a clean-up on an impressive scale. The outlay on the pins and bits of paper was practically nil, so there is no overhead and all that comes in will be pure velvet.”
A strong pang shot through me.
“Do you mean to say,” I demanded with feeling, “that that half-crown of mine goes into your beastly pocket?”
“Half of it. Naturally my colleague and partner is in on the division. Did you really give half-a-crown?” said Ukridge, pleased. “It was like you, laddie. Generous to a fault. If everyone had your lavish disposition, this world would be a better, sweeter place.
“I suppose you realize,” I said, “that in about ten minutes at the outside your colleague and partner, as you call her, will be arrested for obtaining money under false pretences?”
“Not a chance.” ;
“After which, they will—thank God!—proceed to pinch you.”
“Quite impossible, laddie. I rely on my knowledge of human psychology. What did she say when she stung you?”
“I forget. ‘Buy a buttercup’ or something.”
“And then?”
“Then I asked what it was all about, and she said, ‘Buttercup Day’.”
“Exactly. And that’s all she will need to say to- anyone. Is it likely, is it reasonable to suppose, that even in these materialistic days Chivalry has sunk so low that any man will require to be told more, by a girl as pretty as that, than that it is Buttercup Day?” He walked to the window and looked out. “Ah! She’s come round into the back garden,” he said, with satisfaction. “She seems to be doing a roaring trade. Every second man is wearing a buttercup. She is now putting it across a curate, bless her heart.”
“And in a couple of minutes she will probably try to put it across a plain-clothes detective, and that will be the end.’
Ukridge eyed me reproachfully. “You persist in looking on the gloomy side, Corky. A little more of the congratulatory attitude is what I could wish to see in you, laddie. You do not appear to realize that your old friend’s foot is at last on the ladder that leads to wealth. Suppose—putting it at the lowest figure—I net four pounds out of this buttercup business. It goes on Caterpillar in the two o’clock selling race at Kempton. Caterpillar wins, the odds being—let us say—ten to one. Stake and winnings go on Bismuth for the Jubilee Cup, again at ten to one. There you have a nice, clean four hundred pounds of capital, ample for a man of keen business sense to build a fortune on. For, between ourselves, Corky, I have my eye on what looks like the investment of a lifetime.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I was reading about it the other day. A cat ranch out in America.”
“A cat ranch?”
”That’s it. You collect a hundred thousand cats. Each cat has twelve kittens a year. The skins range from ten cents each for the white ones to seventy-five for the pure black. That gives you twelve million skins per year to sell at an average price of thirty cents per skin, making your annual revenue at a conservative estimate three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. But, you will say, what about overhead expenses?”
“Will I?”
“That has all been allowed for. To feed the cats you start a rat ranch next door. The rats multiply four times as fast as cats, so if you begin with a million rats it gives you four rats per day per cat, which is plenty. You feed the rats on what is left over of the cats after removing the skins, allowing one-fourth of a cat per tat, the business thus becoming automatically self-supporting. The cats will eat the rats, the rats will eat the cats–”
On Australians:
Spoiler
I don’t know if you have any pet day-dream, Corky, but mine had always been the sudden appearance of the rich uncle from Australia you read so much about in novels. The old-fashioned novels, I mean, the ones where the hero isn’t a dope-fiend. And here he was, looking as I had always expected him to look....
(The Australian uncle) said that, though he wasn’t any too keen on matrimony as an institution, he was broad-minded enough to realize that there might quite possibly be women in the world unlike his late wife. Concerning whom, he added that the rabbit was not, as had been generally stated, Australia’s worst pest.
...
"Good God! When I was in Africa during the Boer War a platoon of Australians scrounged one of my cast-iron sheds one night, but I never expected that that sort of thing happened in England in peace-time.”
On wooing:
Spoiler
I look back on that moment, Corky, old boy, as one of the worst in my career. It is always a nervous business for a fellow to entertain for the first time the girl he loves and her father; and, believe me, it doesn’t help pass things off when a couple of the proletariat in shirt-sleeves surge into the room and start carrying out all the chairs. Conversation during the proceedings was, you might say, at a standstill; and even after the operations were over it wasn’t any too easy to get it going again.On scrounging:
Spoiler
Corky, a sudden bright light shone on me. I saw all. It was that word “scrounge” that did it. I remembered now having heard of Australia and its scroungers. They go about pinching things, Corky–No, I do not mean spring suits, I mean things that really matter, things of vital import like sundials and summer-houses—not beastly spring suits which nobody could tell you wanted, anyway, and you’ll get it back to-morrow as good as new.Spoiler
Mrs. Bingo was a woman who wrote novels about girls who wanted to be loved for themselves alone, but she was not lacking in astuteness.
Picts or it didn't happen.
This history reminded me of a painter using negative space techniques, because of the dearth of material available on the Picts. Even defining who they were is difficult: the term was first used by Romans to refer to barbarians north of Hadrian's Wall, and then by Christians to refer to people in Scotland who hadn't converted, and eventually as denoting a tribe separate from the others (but even then the author warns of relying on a 'one Pict fits all' mentality).
Still, a well-researched look at a captivating period of history.
This history reminded me of a painter using negative space techniques, because of the dearth of material available on the Picts. Even defining who they were is difficult: the term was first used by Romans to refer to barbarians north of Hadrian's Wall, and then by Christians to refer to people in Scotland who hadn't converted, and eventually as denoting a tribe separate from the others (but even then the author warns of relying on a 'one Pict fits all' mentality).
Still, a well-researched look at a captivating period of history.