This is by way of being a sort-of kind-of biography of
P.G. Wodehouse, relying mostly on Wodehouse’ letters and
(woefully few) writings about himself, as well as his attitudes as
expressed in his novels and short stories. Quoting Wodehouse as much as
it does, it is indeed a funny and easily-read book. As a biography, it’s
only so-so, especially as (as the book itself points out) you can’t
necessarily trust what Wodehouse says about himself.

I did learn a few interesting things, though. For most of Wodehouse’
childhood, his mother and father were living in the Far East, while he
himself was shuttled from, significantly, Aunt to Aunt. He had almost no
contact with his mother from the time he was about two years old until
he was in his teens. (They were not close.)

And then, after he left school he spent two years working at the London
branch of the Hong Kong and Shanghae Bank. (The book spells it
“Shanghai”, but this is an error.) (Yes, I know, the City of Shanghai is
usually spelled “Shanghai”. In the name of the bank, it’s “Shanghae”.)
He claims never to have understood what he was supposed to be doing there,
and was finally sacked for writing the beginnings of a story in a brand
new ledger. This was Defacing A Ledger, and was very bad.

After that, he became a full-time writer, and eventually moved
permanently to the United States, where with Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern
he helped to invent the modern musical comedy. Before Wodehouse, the
songs in musical comedy frequently had little to do with the story being
told, but were selected for their perceived chance to become a hit.
After Wodehouse, it was expected that the songs served the story. His
efforts as a lyricist are virtually forgotten these days, but among many
other songs he wrote the lyrics for “Bill” from Showboat. He also
wrote a number of plays, which so far as I can tell are entirely
forgotten.

Wodehouse spent a total of eighteen months working in
Hollywood as a writer. His first stint consisted of two consecutive six
month contracts for Warner Brothers. He got paid a ridiculous
amount–$2000 a week in 1929 dollars–for doing virtually nothing. The
studio hired well-known writers, but didn’t ask them to write anything.
Weird. He spent another six months in Hollywood some few years later,
with similar results.

And while all this was going on, he was writing, constantly. For which
I’m heartily grateful.