Seeking something light to read in the midst of coronavirus hysteria, I borrowed a copy P. G. Wodehouse's The Code of the Woosters from the library. I had never read him before, but I was long familiar with his name and the kinds of books he wrote.
This particular book was indeed amusing. The man is a skillful wordsmith and is gifted at spinning silliness.
But I don't have an overwhelming desire to rush back and get another of Wodehouse's many books.
His silliness was enjoyable, but it's the kind of silliness I can only take in small doses.
Besides, reading the book brought back unpleasant memories.
I used to be in a relationship with a young woman who had all sorts of mental issues.
The fact that I was in a relationship with her raises questions about my own mental health, but we won't got there right now.
This woman was a bit of a recluse. She was also obsessive/compulsive by nature.
One of the obsessions she developed was reading Wodehouse. The local libraries had an ample supply of Wodehouse books, but she, being, as I noted, somewhat reclusive, did not like to go to the libraries. So she asked me to get the books for her.
I spent months going to various libraries - including the university library where I was attending graduate school - finding as many copies of his books as I could locate and bringing them to her. She easily read more than 70 of them.
As the ease of finding the books decreased, her obsessive desire seemed to wane. She moved on to other obsessions.
Some of those other obsessions lead to the rather unpleasant breakup of our relationship. But we won't go there either.
Anyway, as I was reading this book, memories of the relationship kept coming back. Indeed, some of the characters and their foibles even reminded me of her.
Except her foibles did not make me laugh.
So I may read another Wodehouse down the road, but not right now.
Ben Franklin beckons. I wonder what obsessions he had?
Pax et bonum
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