"A depressing musty scent pervaded the place, as if a cheese had recently died there in painful circumstances."

It's passages like this that made this book a fun palette cleanser. Nowadays this book feels like typical sitcom fare but at the same time it reminded me why I gravitate toward the literature of the 1920s. The silliness of mistaken identities (which today feels far-fetched), the reliance on letters and telegrams to communicate, the need to travel to visit with friends, and the generally slower pace of life. All of that combined made reading this book feel like sitting up late at night to watch the late movie. ( )

I rated this beautifully written book a mere 3 because I lost interest in it and finished it out of some misplaced desire to turn the last page. It was funny at first and I laughed out loud but whether I simply became accustomed to the humour, or it petered out, I can't say. Nevertheless, Wodehouse's sentences are always a pleasure to read and he has a way of enfolding me in his world, where women seek to shape men and matters of consequence are treated with a feather-like lightness of touch.

Lord Emsworth jerked his glasses off his nose.
'Corfby Hall! Are you the son of the Smith who used to own Corfby Hall? Why bless my soul, I knew you father well.'
'Really?
'Yes, that is to say, I never met him.'
'No?'
'But I won first prize for roses at the Shrewsbury Flower Show the year he won the prize for tulips.'

( )

April 2018 reread done via the marvelous narration of Jonathan Cecil (Hoopla audiobook):
This book was so much more hilarious now that I am familiar with Psmith! I thought it was great as a Blandings book but now as a Psmith book, I love it even more (particularly the way Psmith interacts with Baxter). The only thing missing is The Empress... As a result, I am increasing my rating from the previous 4* (especially for the audiobook narration by Cecil). ( )

Unbelievably charming and fun. I’m surprised that Wodehouse never returned to Psmith for a sequel. ( )

"Then perhaps you will tell me your name."
"Ah! Things are beginning to move. The name is Psmith. P-smith. The p is silent."
"Psmith?"
"Psmith."
Miss Clarkson brooded over this for a moment in almost pained silence, then recovered her slipping grip of affairs.
"I think," she said, "you had better give me a few particulars about yourself."
"There is nothing I should like better," responded Psmith warmly. "I am always ready--I may say eager--to tell people the story of my life, but in this rushing age I get little encouragement."

Good Wodehousian farce. Tables get turned, and then turned again, and then turned again, and on and on for a while, until everything suddenly comes full circle in the last couple of pages.
Loved this description of Freddie Threepwood: "He sidled up, looking like a well-dressed sheep." Wodehouse can always be depended on for marvelous similes!

I will say, though, you have to be in the right mood for all of this, and although I can appreciate the deft writing and get some chuckles out of it, a whole novel's worth of farce is not my favorite thing any more. ( )