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UNABLE ALWAYS TO SUPPRESS the smartarse which lurks within me, I experienced a sense triumph recently when I became convinced at I had discovered the true source of P.G. Wodehouse's inspiration.
Is this a matter of consequence to the intellectual life of the twenty-first century? To reassure myself before making the results of my research public, I asked my most sophisticated early-thirties Australian friend if she and her contemporaries read Wodehouse. She e-mailed:
I always keep a few of his books on hand in ease I feel blue. I bought a stack of Blandings Castle novels in Connaught Circus, Delhi, and read them to relieve my misery while ...