1987 - I was twenty-five years old and holed up in the intensive care unit at the National Neurological Hospital in London, stricken from head to toe with Guillain-Barré Syndrome. Symptoms: total paralysis. Prognosis: uncertain.Guillain Barré Syndrome is a bizarre illness. It attacks the myelin sheath that transmits messages along one's peripheral nerves. One day my toes went numb. A week later I found myself in hospital, unable to move, breathe or speak. An unscratchable itch on my leg could propel me to the brink of insanity. Dust fell into my eyes and I couldn’t blink or wipe it away. I could not call out for assistance.Upon learning of my perilous condition, my mother had dropped everything, packed a suitcase and flown from Sydney. Now she sat by my bedside for twelve hours a day, every day. Each night mum grabbed a few hours' sleep at her friends' house; Chrissy and Ralph were devotees of an Indian guru by the name of Swamiji. When Swamiji heard of my situation he began to call my mother and tell her of his visions for me. ‘I see yellow,’ spake the guru. The next day mum arrived at the hospital laden with armfuls of daffodils and yellow tulips. She filled all the vases in the room with them. Two days later, Swamiji called again: ‘I see purple.’ Out went the daffodils, replaced by swathes of irises. Mum herself was dressed in a purple silk kimono that she’d borrowed from Chrissy. Then Swamiji made a personal appearance at the ICU, without shoes. Through his flowing grey beard he blew into my chakras. Matron tried to hustle him from the room but Swamiji resisted her. At that point Sister Mary entered the scene.Sister Mary had been hospitalised for an acute attack of Multiple Sclerosis but was now on the bounce back. She busied herself by ambling from ward to ward with her walking stick, rescuing the souls of fellow patients. Some of those ingrates did not wish to be saved but in me she found a compliant mark. Being fully paralysed I didn’t have much choice in the matter.Sister Mary visited most days and sprinkled my motionless body with Lourdes water that she kept in a plastic bottle. She left a specimen jar by my bed containing some small pieces of black stuff. ‘Relics of Padre Pio,’ Sister Mary said. Not being much of a Christian I didn’t cotton on to the significance of these. I was quite taken aback when I later learned that they were bits of the charred remains of a revered Catholic priest.Swamiji blew and Sister Mary sprinkled and as they did so the two of them fell into meaningful discussion of matters philosophical and theological. They could not see eye-to-eye about how best to save me but each of them gave as good as they got. Their conversation continued; Swamiji took to calling Sister Mary on the wheelie payphone on her hospital ward. She would then appear at my bedside in high dudgeon: ‘I had your friend Swamiji on the phone last night. He’s a very irritating man.’‘He’s not my friend,’ I wanted to say, but I couldn’t speak.Since I was hooked up to a ventilator, my only means of communication was by a tortuous method of blinking at an alphabet board. It was tedious and often upsetting for all concerned. Mum sat by my bedside week after week. Sometimes she read out the crossword clues and then patiently tried to decipher the answers that I blinked. But mostly she read aloud books by P.G. Wodehouse. She voiced the characters of Bertie and Jeeves and played up the ridiculousness of their awful scrapes. Mum had no way of knowing that inside my waxen, immobile body I was aching with laughter. Those books were written with a lightness and sense of the absurd that helped me to find the funny side of my own predicament.During months of rehabilitation - learning to walk, talk, write and do everything that I thought I had mastered as a toddler - I sometimes entertained the fantasy that I might one day repay my debt of gratitude to the universe and to the NHS by retraining as a nurse. I examined the qualities required: tolerance, compassion, self-sacrifice, an ability to look at blood and vomit without fainting... and I knew the truth: that me becoming a nurse would be about as useful to the world as Tony Blair becoming a Middle East Peace Envoy.No, nursing was not to be my vocation. But I've never forgotten how those long afternoons with Jeeves and Wooster helped me to escape the terror and confusion of being paralysed. 'One day', I thought, 'I would like to write a book that will help somebody else to get through a shit time'. When I was diagnosed with cancer and my boyfriend dumped me, I realised that day had come.
Full review/Цялото ревю - click, clickМисля, че бях чела повечето разкази от книгата - може би разпилени по различни български издания и омнибуси, но историите на Удхаус никога не омръзват. Винаги ще се смея на епизодите със сър Родерик Глосъп и грейката с вода, и винаги ще треперя дори при споменаването на леля Агата. Винаги ще съчувствам на Бърти за несполучливия избор на любови, и на Джийвс - за несполучливите избори на Бърти за облекло, които е принуден да търпи... известно време :DТрудно мога да посоча любимец сред единайсетте разказа - всичките така ме забавляваха. Може би малко по напред, на фотофиниш излиза разказът, вдъхновил горната корица, който описва едно напреднато съревнование по послушание, залог в който е безценния готвач на леля Далия - Анатол. Почетни споменавания заслужават и историята за малката Клементина (отразена на другата корица, която подбрах), заради прекрасното впечатление, което Бърти успя да остави у лелината дружка. А също и последният разказ - The Ordeal of Young Tuppy, където - благодарение и на съответния епизод - повече от ясно си представях футболното меле и физиономията на Тъпи (една такава, тъпичка. Мда, високоинтелигентна игра на думи. Жалко, че тук Гъси нямаше голямо участие. :D )Беше неповторимо удоволствие да ги слушам. Чакай, всъщност е повторимо. Мога да си ги пусна пак. И определено ще го направя някой път.~~~I think I've read at some time most of the stories in this book - scattered in different editions maybe, because it seems the bulgarian editions don't follow closely the original series order (not sure) but I will never get tired of them. I will laugh at the episode with sir Glossop and tremble at even the mentioning of aunt Agatha. Always be sympathetic with Bertie and his bad choice of fiancee, and with Jeeves - for Bertie's bad choice of clothing.It is hard to pick a favourite among the eleven stories, but I decided to show my preference with the covers I chose for this post :D The upper is paying homage to the purifying power of love that showed its strenght in the midst of well-behaving contest where aunt Dahlia's cook was the prize and an angry swan was lurking around. The second cover features the adventure Bertie had with the kid Clementina where he not only survived numerous dangerous situations, but grew up in the eyes of one of lady Agatha's friends. A mentioning deserves the last story too - The Ordeal of Young Tuppy. I remembered vivdly the episode that featured this and I could clearly see the bloody match and Tuppy's face.Very good, Jeeves! was delight to listen as it'd be delight to read, and I will definitely repeat the treat someday. Well deserved 5 stars
What do You think about Very Good, Jeeves! (2011)?
I love the vocabulary and the silliness. I love Wooster and the funny things he says. I love that even those who love him don't find him very bright. I completely relate to wanting to share stories that other people probably don't really want to hear, but are too polite to cut off at the pass.Jeeves- he's such an enigma. He's brilliant and adept, he seems to like gambling and sailing; having seen Downton Abbey and getting a glimpse of life in the Servant's hall, I wonder what conversations he's having off stage. And that's what it comes down to, really. I really enjoy Wodehouse's writing, but I think I'd enjoy seeing things from Jeeve's perspective, at least once.
—Rachel
A little Wodehouse is good for the soul.I chose this fun volume of Jeeves & Wooster because I needed some cheering up after finishing a long and depressing tome (I'm looking at you, Donna Tartt) and now all is well again. Right ho!"Very Good, Jeeves" is a collection of 11 short stories featuring everyone's favorite valet ("a personal gentleman's gentleman," as Jeeves describes himself) and the ongoing scrapes of Mr. Bertie Wooster. In each story, either Bertie or one of his friends and relatives is in a bind, and fortunately for everyone, Jeeves is always there to advise and set things right. Goodreads lists this collection as being fourth in the series, but the marvelous thing about reading Wodehouse is it doesn't seem to matter which book you pick up first -- he's such a brilliant comic writer that you can pick up any Jeeves story and you're immersed. Each story makes sly references to previous adventures, but it won't hamper your enjoyment if you don't recognize it.This is only the second Jeeves & Wooster book I've read, but I enjoy them so much I plan to read the whole set. One of the things I especially love about them is that the stories are narrated by Wooster, who can be such a bumbling fool that it's hilarious whenever he tries to go against Jeeves. "You know, whatever you may say against old Jeeves -- and I, for one, have never wavered in my opinion that his views on shirts for evening wear are hidebound and reactionary to a degree -- you've got to admit that the man can plan a campaign. Napoleon could have taken his correspondence course. When he sketches out a scheme, all you have to do is follow it in details, and there you are."Right ho!
—Diane Librarian
There is really no one who can wash away the troubles, soothe the careworn brow--how does that go again?--And careworn brows forget, sir.Exactly! When my brows need forgetting. No one can soothe and forget like P.G. Wodehouse.I was idling away the morning, doing my best to make myself scarce, what with visiting family being more than a jot tiring, when I popped into the Strand to see if they could help improve the noggin. Not to say they had fish, but they did have a rather large assortment of the printed and bound word, and tucked under a table was a stack of bargain Wodehouse. "Right-ho," I thought and before another moment passed, I had picked up a copy with the intent to seal the deal.It's tricky to describe how pleasurable the Jeeves and Bertie stories by Wodehouse are. Gentle farces, almost completely lacking in anything resembling modern action or soap opera dynamics, they lull one into an idyllic pastoral setting that calms and relaxes until a snort-worthy moment slides in. Besides the convoluted plots dreamed up to reunite separated lovers, or seek revenge for a practical joke, there are the witty bon mots and references that poor Bertie almost never gets, but result in a distinct upward curve of the naso-labial fold of the discerning reader. Wodehouse is a word-smith, but not one of the overflowing adjectives and adverbs variety; rather he plays with expectations and meaning in a clever and fun way.For those new to Wodehouse, the central premise is that Jeeves, an intelligent, discerning, "personal gentleman's gentleman," is constantly using the grey matter to pull poor Bertie out of various scrapes. Occasionally the relationship is complicated by Bertie attempting to demonstrate cultural (that vase! that painting!) and problem-solving independence (the bag of flour gag!), but we all know Jeeves will win out.These eleven stories are no exception to Jeeves' (and Wodehouse's) genius. The usual supporting cast stops by, including Aunts Agatha and Dahlia, Miss Bobbie Wickham, Bingo, and an assortment of characters in various stages of love. Poor Bertie often finds himself in the role of matchmaker. "Jeeves and the Impending Doom" is undoubtedly one of the stars, as Bertie is dispatched to Aunt Agatha's place to make an impression, and is manipulated into helping Bingo manage his wayward ward. A swan proves to be his undoing. Then, Jeeves has his Monte Carlo vacation postponed in "Jeeves and the Yule-Tide Spirit," so that Bertie can attempt practical joke revenge on Tuppy at the same time he presses his suit with Roberta. Luckily for us all, Sir Roderick (he of the overgrown eyebrows) is also in residence. "The Love that Purifies" was one of my favorites, as the plot hedges around a contest of good behavior between two small boys and various efforts to derail them, with Aunt Dahlia's chef Anatole at stake. "Mercenary little brute!" she said. "I never saw such a sickeningly well-behaved kid in my life. It's enough to make one despair of human nature."Heartily recommended.Delicious samples:"You!" said Sir Roderick finally. And in this connection I want to state that it's all rot to say you can't hiss a word that hasn't an 's' in it. The way he pushed out that 'You!' sounded like an angry cobra, and I am betraying no secrets when I say that it did me no good whatsoever.(--from Jeeves and the Yule-Tide Spirit)Bingo said..., "By the way, Bertie, would you like a cocktail?""I would.""Well you won't get one. We don't have cocktails anymore. The girl friend said they corrode the stomachic tissues."I was appalled. I had no idea the evil had spread so far as this."No cocktails!""No. And you'll be dashed lucky if it isn't a vegetarian dinner.""Bingo," I cried, deeply moved. "You must act."(--from Jeeves and the Old School Chum)"In a matter of this kind, Jeeves, the first thing is to study--what's the word I want?--I could not say, sir."Quite a common word--though long."--Psychology, sir?"The exact noun. It is a noun?"--Yes, sir."Spoken like a man!"(--from The Inferiority Complex of Old Sippy)Cross posted at http://clsiewert.wordpress.com/2013/0...
—Carol.
