Though I firmly believe that reading is not to be done for self-improvement, I have understood that each writer I have read has given me something to keep. Bryson taught me that it was okay for other people to consume alcohol. Adams made me take things a little bit lightly, and taught me to laugh at myself. Tolkein gave a glimpse of beauty. But what I got from Wodehouse is what I treasure the most- joy.

Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, born on Valentine’s day, in the time where British Imperial Power was at it’s peak, with the decline beginning. Worked as a Banker in Hong Kong, got bored, and started writing humorous stories. And boy, was he good at that. A composer of words- his prose often feels like a poem- he is perhaps the best writer I know.

Wodehouse invented his own world- a world full of penniless English nobility, rich American millionaires and overbearing aunts. Where members of respected gentlemen’s clubs spend their afternoons chucking bread rolls at passer-byes. Nothing is ever seriously wrong- Bertram Wooster keeps getting engaged to women who he does not want to marry (, with his valet, Jeeves employing indigenous mechanisms to save his young master. Berite’s childhood pal, Richard Little, keeps falling in love every Tuesday, only to have his subject of affection marry someone else the next week. Pongo’s Uncle Fred goes on madcap adventures impersonating people (but only to spread cheer and light) , dragging his nephew along. The crazy lord Emsworth of Blandings spends his afternoons pottering around in his garden, while grand conspiracies involving missing cats, necklaces (and most likely, imposters) play out in his household The worst that can happen is some rash young lordling (moonlighting as a bookie) fails to cough up the derby winnings of some Big Game Hunter- who is now hot on his trail. But American millionaires (with apparently infinite supply of money) keep popping up to ease things on the way.

It is a beautiful world- innocent, untouched by violence, power or politics. Once you dive in, you are lost. You smile, grin and then laugh out loud. And even as you understand that it is clearly a farce, you begin to feel pity for the ‘warm-hearted’ Bingo Little, and his doomed romances. You begin to respect the loony Lord Emsworth for his complete lack of attachment to the real world (or whatever mock-up Wodehouse presents instead of it in his tales.) ,and come to respect the sagacious Jeeves.

You know that everyone is going to live ‘happily ever after’ in the end. Wodehouse doesn’t even make an effort to pretend otherwise. There is no suspense. Yet you keep reading. And as you move through the pages, stumbling with laughter, a warm, fuzzy feeling fills your heart. Joy. And it leaves you wanting for more.

And Wodehouse goes on giving, having produced a humongous bibliography in his lifetime.

After consuming his novels- ever so light and natural- I was surprised when I learned about the amount of work that went into them. Wodehouse once wrote (said?), “I believe there are two ways of writing novels. One is making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going deep down into life and not caring a damn…”. The moment I read that, I knew, that for me too, that was writing.

As a musician, Wodehouse never plays with your emotions, he ‘strums’ them. Between the laughs and snorts and smiles, he leaves you with something more.