Even though this formula of evoking humor from a mishmash of comical situations and confusion arising out of misunderstanding is a common attribute of Wodehouse tales, his talent in making each of the stories loaded with fresh humor is applaudable. The anthology has seven more stories, with each offering its own share of eccentric characters, funny situations and dialog based comedy , which offered a highly enjoyable reading experience.
In these stories the reader can easily detect the flair associated with Wodehousian tales as they are from an era when Wodehouse was already a skilled writer. These lightweight stories are perfectly recommended for relaxed, fun reading. The higher the handicap of a player, the poorer the player is relative to those with lower handicaps.
So attaining a zero handicap or attaining 'a scratch' is a quest for golfers. View all 12 comments. Jun 27, Kaethe rated it really liked it. These pretend to be golf stories, but they aren't. They're the same old delightful Wodehouse: And there's a lot of golf club paraphernalia lying about, and golf games of great importance in settling the matter. Most of it, to be honest, is told in rather out of date slang on golf, which makes the whole experience less realistic and more magical, like fairy tales.
Mar 21, Mark rated it liked it Shelves: Ten stories, all with the common theme of golf and its tortures. Amusing but not particularly laugh out loud funny. Some great turns of phrase and wonderful images but I have noticed one constant. This is the second volume of his short stories that i have read and though i am always aware of which character I am supposed to like, I almost inevitably find them annoying and self-obsessed. In this volume, which is largely tongue-in-cheek, perhaps that is not a real problem but i carry the horrible Ten stories, all with the common theme of golf and its tortures.
In this volume, which is largely tongue-in-cheek, perhaps that is not a real problem but i carry the horrible suspicion that i am going to loathe all his heroes and feel sorry for all his villains. Oct 15, Ian Wood rated it really liked it Recommends it for: Some years ago a friend of mine encouraged me to take up Golf so I could join him in a strange world of tournaments, competitions and social events that would otherwise be closed to me.
Some five hours, one hundred and sixty strokes a very liberal scoring procedure was employed and five lost balls later both he and I were suffering some frustration. I went to a driving range but had to be smuggled out of the back Fore! I went to a driving range but had to be smuggled out of the back door should the gentleman in the next booth regain consciousness whilst I was still on the premises.
One of the patients is zigzagging about the fairway like a liner pursued by submarines. Two others seem to be digging for buried treasure or killing snakes. The remaining cripple, who has just foozled a mashie-shot, is blaming his caddie. Whilst my peers go out for eighteen holes I hole up with the Oldest Member on the terrace of the Mavis Bay golf links and laugh at them.
Jul 27, Abhi rated it really liked it. In that favoured clime, you find the girl and Nature does the rest. As she drew near the table she said to the baby: One sometimes thinks that aunts live entirely for pleasure.
The Clicking of Cuthbert
One word for anything that is PGW: Mar 05, Aditya Kulkarni rated it it was amazing Shelves: What I know about golf - nil. What I thought about the sport in general - Boring. What the central theme of the stories in this book was - Golf. And yet here I am rating a book about golf as magnificent, which just goes to show the genius of Wodehouse. All the stories in this book had me in splits. Don't worry if you find golf to be the most boring sport ever invented, because this book will still be funny. Apr 24, Sara rated it it was amazing. Also free on Project Gutenberg.
And granted, I did start reading Wodehouse with Wodehouse's first book of short stories -- so maybe the progression makes sense -- but this book was all about golf, and I hate golf, and this was still the best Wodehouse I've read yet. Jul 22, Manuel Alfonseca rated it liked it. Ten short stories about how golf can help men marry beautiful girls, or alternatively, escape from girls who hate golf. My copy of the book The Clicking of Cuthbert has a short commentary from Stephen Fry, which goes like this -- "You don't analyse such sunlit perfection, you just bask in its warmth and glory.
Maybe literature scholars dissect the work of P. Wodehouse and place it certain categories and genres, but for someone like me, his work is pure genius, beyond comparison and above categorisation. It is not the work of a mortal, but that of a literary God, who is rich My copy of the book The Clicking of Cuthbert has a short commentary from Stephen Fry, which goes like this -- "You don't analyse such sunlit perfection, you just bask in its warmth and glory.
It is not the work of a mortal, but that of a literary God, who is rich with his narration, and clever with his words. The Clicking of Cuthbert has ten short stories revolving around the game of golf, most of them narrated by a fellow known as the Oldest Member who treats golf as one of the greatest religions known to man. But even though the green pastures of a golf course regularly form the backdrop of these stories, the incidents that occur with the protagonists are to do with a lot more than golf the Oldest Member would be aghast on reading this line!
The theme of love and courtship is the most common and also gives the biggest laughs. Wodehouse has a way with words that is uniquely his; the tone of his story-telling has a soothing touch to it, which is mixed well with humour to put the reader in one of his best moods. The same holds true for The Clicking of Cuthbert , which is one of his best works that I have read, though again I repeat, we cannot and probably should not judge Wodehouse. His work has stood the test of time, and it is just a privilege to be able to get to read such books. So if you are hunting for something that will make you lighten up and enjoy life a bit more, The Clicking of Cuthbert is a good recommendation!
Sep 30, Tanmay. Started reading this book on net on a dull monday morning in Office. Ya I do that. I was suggested about Wodehouse books by my friend before. I had even began with one but left in between because of the arduous verbiage and unfamiliar slangs. So was bit hesitant before starting this.
The book is collection of short stories themed around the game of golf and the extent to which it worshippers go to preserve their love for it. Th Started reading this book on net on a dull monday morning in Office. The plots built around it are really funny. The author's passion for the game is quite evident from the details with which the golf has been described. The type of humor is romantic comedy. But it has delightful sarcasm,wit,quips intertwined within it.
The author ability to incite humor from supposedly ordinary scenarios is truly amazing. And dont worry if you are not the greatest fan of golf Like me. Because all the golf jargon somehow doesnt spoil this beautiful comedy. It wont bore a bit once you get hang of it and you'll never know when you have finished it. The best book of this genre I've read so far. If you appreciate pleasant witty humor or want to have a quick laugh this book is definitely for you. Looking forward to more from him.: Beautiful, light and sunny. Wodehouse's golf stories are perfect for any occasion.
Might consider taking up golf now. Mar 01, Luke Paulsen rated it liked it. This is the first P. Wodehouse book I've read, and I have to believe I'm missing something. Yes, it's funny and well-written. In fact there were several moments that delighted me. But I'd always heard Wodehouse spoken of in superlatives, and from this collection I'm just not seeing it. His stories seemed somehow obvious. It's as if Wodehouse had brainstormed a list of possible premises for a comedy sketch about-- in the case of this collection-- golf and romance, and then simply wrote the firs This is the first P.
It's as if Wodehouse had brainstormed a list of possible premises for a comedy sketch about-- in the case of this collection-- golf and romance, and then simply wrote the first story that came to mind around each of them. By which, as usual, I don't mean to say that it's badly done. Given the general high esteem for Wodehouse I have to assume I'm missing something here. Maybe I'm blinded by hindsight to his inventiveness and interesting writing.
Or maybe I just don't appreciate the things that others like about him. I can certainly report that the prose is clever, in that wonderful roundabout English way; and also that the stories are always good for a chuckle and occasionally for more than that. Wodehouse's humor-- which seems to be mostly based on exaggeration and caricature-- sometimes hit for me and sometimes missed. Beyond that I have to admit I didn't notice much worth reporting. At any rate, I'll have to track down one of Wodehouse's better-known novels the Jeeves and Wooster ones, I think? Sometimes short stories don't show off writers at their best.
The Clicking of Cuthbert by P. G. Wodehouse
For now, I can only say that I found The Clicking of Cuthbert to be reasonably entertaining-- but not much more than that. Aug 05, Gretchen rated it really liked it. I do not know if you have had any experience of suburban literary societies, but the one that flourished under the eye of Mrs.
Willoughby Smethurst at Wood Hills was rather more so than the average. With my feeble powers of narrative, I cannot hope to make clear to you all that Cuthbert Banks endured in the next few weeks. And, even if I could, I doubt if I should do so. It is all very well to excite pity and terror, as Aristotle recommends, but there are limits. In the ancient Greek tragedies it was an ironclad rule that all the real rough stuff should take place off-stage, and I shall follow this admirable principle. It will suffice if I say merely that J.
Cuthbert Banks had a thin time. After attending eleven debates and fourteen lectures on vers libre Poetry, the Seventeenth-Century Essayists, the Neo-Scandinavian Movement in Portuguese Literature, and other subjects of a similar nature, he grew so enfeebled that, on the rare occasions when he had time for a visit to the links, he had to take a full iron for his mashie shots. It was not simply the oppressive nature of the debates and lectures that sapped his vitality.
What really got right in amongst him was the torture of seeing Adeline's adoration of Raymond Parsloe Devine. The man seemed to have made the deepest possible impression upon her plastic emotions. When he spoke, she leaned forward with parted lips and looked at him.
- The Clicking of Cuthbert - Wikisource, the free online library.
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When he was not speaking--which was seldom--she leaned back and looked at him. And when he happened to take the next seat to her, she leaned sideways and looked at him.
One glance at Mr. Devine would have been more than enough for Cuthbert; but Adeline found him a spectacle that never palled. She could not have gazed at him with a more rapturous intensity if she had been a small child and he a saucer of ice-cream. All this Cuthbert had to witness while still endeavouring to retain the possession of his faculties sufficiently to enable him to duck and back away if somebody suddenly asked him what he thought of the sombre realism of Vladimir Brusiloff.
It is little wonder that he tossed in bed, picking at the coverlet, through sleepless nights, and had to have all his waistcoats taken in three inches to keep them from sagging. This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian novelist, and, owing to the fact of his being in the country on a lecturing tour at the moment, there had been something of a boom in his works. The Wood Hills Literary Society had been studying them for weeks, and never since his first entrance into intellectual circles had Cuthbert Banks come nearer to throwing in the towel.
Vladimir specialized in grey studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened till page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commit suicide. It was tough going for a man whose deepest reading hitherto had been Vardon on the Push-Shot, and there can be no greater proof of the magic of love than the fact that Cuthbert stuck it without a cry.
But the strain was terrible and I am inclined to think that he must have cracked, had it not been for the daily reports in the papers of the internecine strife which was proceeding so briskly in Russia. Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at the rate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country were murdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventually give out. One morning, as he tottered down the road for the short walk which was now almost the only exercise to which he was equal, Cuthbert met Adeline.
A spasm of anguish flitted through all his nerve-centres as he saw that she was accompanied by Raymond Parsloe Devine. Why should he be? No, Aunt Emily met his manager after his lecture at Queen's Hall yesterday, and he has promised that Mr. Brusiloff shall come to her next Wednesday reception. I think she must have told him that Mr. Devine would be there to meet him. Competent critics have said that my work closely resembles that of the great Russian Masters. Cuthbert in a perfect agony of spirit prepared to withdraw from this love-feast.
The sun was shining brightly, but the world was black to him. Birds sang in the tree-tops, but he did not hear them. He might have been a moujik for all the pleasure he found in life. When Cuthbert had entered the drawing-room on the following Wednesday and had taken his usual place in a distant corner where, while able to feast his gaze on Adeline, he had a sporting chance of being overlooked or mistaken for a piece of furniture, he perceived the great Russian thinker seated in the midst of a circle of admiring females.
Raymond Parsloe Devine had not yet arrived. His first glance at the novelist surprised Cuthbert. Doubtless with the best motives, Vladimir Brusiloff had permitted his face to become almost entirely concealed behind a dense zareba of hair, but his eyes were visible through the undergrowth, and it seemed to Cuthbert that there was an expression in them not unlike that of a cat in a strange backyard surrounded by small boys.
The man looked forlorn and hopeless, and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home. This was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Brusiloff had had from Russia had been particularly cheering. Three of his principal creditors had perished in the last massacre of the bourgeoisie , and a man whom he owed for five years for a samovar and a pair of overshoes had fled the country, and had not been heard of since.
It was not bad news from home that was depressing Vladimir. What was wrong with him was the fact that this was the eighty-second suburban literary reception he had been compelled to attend since he had landed in the country on his lecturing tour, and he was sick to death of it. When his agent had first suggested the trip, he had signed on the dotted line without an instant's hesitation.
Worked out in roubles, the fees offered had seemed just about right. But now, as he peered through the brushwood at the faces round him, and realized that eight out of ten of those present had manuscripts of some sort concealed on their persons, and were only waiting for an opportunity to whip them out and start reading, he wished that he had stayed at his quiet home in Nijni-Novgorod, where the worst thing that could happen to a fellow was a brace of bombs coming in through the window and mixing themselves up with his breakfast egg.
At this point in his meditations he was aware that his hostess was looming up before him with a pale young man in horn-rimmed spectacles at her side. There was in Mrs. Smethurst's demeanour something of the unction of the master-of-ceremonies at the big fight who introduces the earnest gentleman who wishes to challenge the winner.
Smethurst, "I do so want you to meet Mr. Raymond Parsloe Devine, whose work I expect you know. He is one of our younger novelists. The distinguished visitor peered in a wary and defensive manner through the shrubbery, but did not speak. Inwardly he was thinking how exactly like Mr.
Devine was to the eighty-one other younger novelists to whom he had been introduced at various hamlets throughout the country.
The Clicking of Cuthbert by P.G. Wodehouse
Raymond Parsloe Devine bowed courteously, while Cuthbert, wedged into his corner, glowered at him. Devine, "have been kind enough to say that my poor efforts contain a good deal of the Russian spirit. I owe much to the great Russians. I have been greatly influenced by Sovietski. Down in the forest something stirred. It was Vladimir Brusiloff's mouth opening, as he prepared to speak. He was not a man who prattled readily, especially in a foreign tongue. He gave the impression that each word was excavated from his interior by some up-to-date process of mining.
He glared bleakly at Mr. Devine, and allowed three words to drop out of him. There was a painful sensation. The lot of a popular idol is in many ways an enviable one, but it has the drawback of uncertainty. Here today and gone tomorrow.
Until this moment Raymond Parsloe Devine's stock had stood at something considerably over par in Wood Hills intellectual circles, but now there was a rapid slump. Hitherto he had been greatly admired for being influenced by Sovietski, but it appeared now that this was not a good thing to be. It was evidently a rotten thing to be. The law could not touch you for being influenced by Sovietski, but there is an ethical as well as a legal code, and this it was obvious that Raymond Parsloe Devine had transgressed.
Women drew away from him slightly, holding their skirts. Men looked at him censoriously. Adeline Smethurst started violently, and dropped a tea-cup. And Cuthbert Banks, doing his popular imitation of a sardine in his corner, felt for the first time that life held something of sunshine. Raymond Parsloe Devine was plainly shaken, but he made an adroit attempt to recover his lost prestige. A young writer commits many follies.
I have long since passed through that phase. The false glamour of Sovietski has ceased to dazzle me. I now belong whole-heartedly to the school of Nastikoff. There was a reaction. People nodded at one another sympathetically. After all, we cannot expect old heads on young shoulders, and a lapse at the outset of one's career should not be held against one who has eventually seen the light. This time there was no doubt about it. The bottom had dropped out of the market, and Raymond Parsloe Devine Preferred were down in the cellar with no takers.
It was clear to the entire assembled company that they had been all wrong about Raymond Parsloe Devine. They had allowed him to play on their innocence and sell them a pup. They had taken him at his own valuation, and had been cheated into admiring him as a man who amounted to something, and all the while he had belonged to the school of Nastikoff.
You never can tell. Smethurst's guests were well-bred, and there was consequently no violent demonstration, but you could see by their faces what they felt. Those nearest Raymond Parsloe jostled to get further away. Smethurst eyed him stonily through a raised lorgnette. One or two low hisses were heard, and over at the other end of the room somebody opened the window in a marked manner.
Raymond Parsloe Devine hesitated for a moment, then, realizing his situation, turned and slunk to the door. There was an audible sigh of relief as it closed behind him. I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me. And, having uttered this dictum, he removed a slab of cake from a near-by plate, steered it through the jungle, and began to champ.
It is too much to say that there was a dead silence. There could never be that in any room in which Vladimir Brusiloff was eating cake.
But certainly what you might call the general chit-chat was pretty well down and out. Nobody liked to be the first to speak. The members of the Wood Hills Literary Society looked at one another timidly. Cuthbert, for his part, gazed at Adeline; and Adeline gazed into space. It was plain that the girl was deeply stirred. Her eyes were opened wide, a faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, and her breath was coming quickly. Adeline's mind was in a whirl.
She felt as if she had been walking gaily along a pleasant path and had stopped suddenly on the very brink of a precipice. It would be idle to deny that Raymond Parsloe Devine had attracted her extraordinarily. She had taken him at his own valuation as an extremely hot potato, and her hero-worship had gradually been turning into love.