Our friend Dave Lull has shared an article about the latest sign of the Apocalypse â the bowdlerization of the works of P. G. Wodehouse. The link he sent went to an article hidden behind a paywall, but my formidable investigative skills enabled me to locate a cognate report here, at National Review:
Wodehouse joins a growing list of prominent authors, deceased and living, whose works have been tinkered with by sensitivity readers, including Roald Dahl, R. L. Stine, and Agatha Christie. Penguin Random House, which recently relented to a degree on the Dahl edits, has released new editions of the Jeeves stories that include trigger warnings, the Telegraph reported.
The warning on the opening pages of the 2023 reissue of Thank You, Jeeves reads: âPlease be aware that this book was published in the 1930s and contains language, themes and characterisations which you may find outdated. In the present edition we have sought to edit, minimally, words that we regard as unacceptable to present-day readers.â
It goes on to state that the changes do not affect the story itself. The 2022 edition of Right Ho, Jeeves has also been edited and features the same disclaimer.
The traditional word for this kind of activity is âBowdlerization,â named for Thomas Bowdler (1754-1825), an English physician and social reformer whoâs most famous for producing The Family Shakespeare, in which he (and his sister) cleaned the offensive words out of the Bardâs plays.
Thomas Bowdler used to be mentioned pretty often back in my college days, in the Age of Aquarius, when we were letting it all hang out and âkeeping it real, baby.â We Baby Boomers, in the toilet flush of our youth, laughed at the weak-minded old English whoâd get the vapors from hearing a dirty word or two. Thank Henry Miller weâd evolved past all that!
Well, in the 2020s we Boomers are still more or less running things, but in our dotage weâve succeeded in sinking beneath Bowdler’s level. It ought to be noted that old Thomas did not hold a copyright on Shakespeareâs works. He never made any attempt to remove the original versions of the plays from the literary market; he simply offered an alternative to people who wanted one. Penguin Random House has changed the official, copyrighted text of Wodehouse for all readers, young and old, wise and foolish. âWe have a responsibility to shield the public, you know.â
The Great Pendulum swings in accordance with implacable laws of physics. Swing too far toward license in one generation and youâll swing back to authoritarianism in the next. It seems we humans live just long enough, generally speaking, to betray our principles.
Continuing an Easter theme, here’s a marvelous hymn that fits our Good Friday meditations. “Stricken, smitten, and afflicted” comes from the Irishman Thomas Kelly (1769-1855), who wrote 765 hymns over 51 years. The tune, I believe, is of German folk origin with harmony arranged by American Paul G. Bunjes for Lutheran Worship (1982). The text below is taken from the 2006 Lutheran Service Book.
1 Stricken, smitten, and afflicted, see him dying on the tree! ‘Tis the Christ, by man rejected; yes, my soul, ’tis he, ’tis he! ‘Tis the long-expected Prophet, David’s Son, yet David’s Lord; Proofs I see sufficient of it: ’tis the true and faithful Word.
2 Tell me, ye who hear him groaning, was there ever grief like his? Friends through fear his cause disowning, foes insulting his distress; many hands were raised to wound him, none would interpose to save; but the deepest stroke that pierced him was the stroke that Justice gave.
3 Ye who think of sin but lightly nor suppose the evil great here may view its nature rightly, here its guilt may estimate. Mark the sacrifice appointed, see who bears the awful load; ’tis the Word, the Lord’s Anointed, Son of Man and Son of God.
4 Here we have a firm foundation, here the refuge of the lost; Christ, the Rock of our salvation, his the name of which we boast: Lamb of God, for sinners wounded, sacrifice to cancel guilt! None shall ever be confounded who on him their hope have built.
Isn’t it curious how the Bible is not an instruction manual? Some preachers and parents talk about it as if it is one, but if we know anything about actual instruction manuals, we know the Bible is nothing like them.
It’s mostly narrative history, even the prophecies fall into this. The gospels are not direct proclamations of good news, like what the angels declare to the shepherds from the skies, and the epistles, which are the most direct instruction, are more like single lectures from a larger course.
The Lord gave us a Bible with songs, proverbs, stories, and rules that require interpretation for a modern audience. Deuteronomy is the most like an instruction manual, and it isn’t something today’s believers can treat like a guidebook. Even the fourth commandment trips us up.
What we have in Scripture is the most marvelous book ever written. It shows us who we are apart from our vain imagination, and it shows us something of the majesty of the Almighty. It offers us the words of the Holy Spirit for feeding our hearts and minds from the hand of the author of our lives. It’s closer to a devotional than a manual.
This post may show how much Jared C. Wilson has influenced me, because when I looked up Midwestern Seminary’s For the Church site for something on this idea, I found two of Jared’s posts. From his book on the church, “The Bible is Not an Instructional Manual,” and again last year on the statement that the Bible is Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth.
Here are some other posts.
Bookselling: Jeremy Anderberg suggests intentional browsing. “There are a lot of great books published every year â every month! â but publishers are increasingly putting all their marketing power into a smaller group of titles, in hopes of ensuring that coveted bestseller or celebrity book club status.”
“One of the big misperceptions about cowboys is that they were only dumb, itinerant, agricultural workers, when, in fact, most people of that period were self-educated. Heck, one of the most referred to books as being read by the cowboys in Louis LâAmourâs novels is Plutarchâs Lives.”
“I was having lunch with the Wyoming Office of Tourism, and they were telling me how much they loved the books, and I asked them why? They said that even though Absaroka County is fictitious I use all the businesses, landmarks, roads, and trails so that itâs easy to tell the tourists where they are. Iâve always found itâs easier to remember the truth, even when writing a novel.” (via Books, Inq)
What Holds Us? “Such attentiveness â call it curiosity or engagement with our surrounding — is a form of reverence and gratitude, and likewise an admission of willful ignorance: we learn little when we ignore our world.”
I don’t intend to start adding music to my Saturday posts, but I listen regularly to traditional music like what Julie Fowlis sings here and I want to share it. This whole album is marvelous.
A set of traditional songs starting with “Fodder for the small stirks”
From Dave Lull, the following citation. I don’t know where he got it.
Priscilla Jensenâs review of âAn Admirable Point: A Brief History of the Exclamation Mark!â by Florence Hazrat (Bookshelf, April 7) reminds me of something the novelist D. Keith Mano wrote in National Review in 1975: âThe exclamation point may be used only in dialogue and then only if the person speaking has recently been disemboweled.”
The third of postmodernismâs triumvirate of stooges, Michel Foucault (1926-1984), focuses his indignation on common sense because it carries âthe tyranny of goodwill, the obligation to think âin commonâ with others, the domination of a pedagogical model, and most importantlyâthe exclusion of stupidity.â
If like me youâve read Francis Schaeffer and Allan Bloom, and if youâve pondered C.S. Lewisâs âThe Poison of Subjectivism,â youâre aware that the central intellectual battle of our time rages around Reason. Does reason give us a window on reality, something conccrete on which we can fully rest our weight, or is everything âsubjectiveâ; is one personâs world entirely different from anotherâs? Is thinking worth anything, or must passion rule all things?
My friend Mark Goldblatt, novelist, columnist, and educator, provides a useful guide in his recent book, I Feel, Therefore I Am: The Triumph of Woke Subjectivism. The book offers a short historical overview of how the Enlightenment came to enshrine Reason, and then how a rising tide of Subjectivism gradually infiltrated our institutions of higher education, turning the culture of the mind into streams of thought that must ultimately run dry.
He examines Critical Race Theory, showing how it employs Subjectivist philosophy to exalt feeling over fact, turning the quest for knowledge into a quest for raw power (because once reason is dead, we canât have a discussion. All thatâs left is a shouting match. And after shouting come fists). He goes on to outline how the Me-Too movement corrupted its honorable ideals by abandoning objective standards of justice, and how more and more people, in the spirit of transgenderist dogmatism, are now destroying their own bodies.
He ends by suggesting some means by which our schools of liberal arts, having become divinity schools of Woke religion, might be amputated and allowed to wither, before they can poison the whole body.
This book is only six months old, but it might possibly already be too late. The schools of the STEM disciplines, in which the author places much hope, seem to be already in the process of corruption, embracing Woke mathematics and physics (Want to fly in an airplane designed according to Woke math principles? You first; Iâll wait).
Still, I Feel, Therefore I Am is a worthwhile introduction for the thoughtful reader desiring some points of reference in the churning sea  of Relativist culture. I enjoyed it and recommend it. Cautions for some rough language.
He was overcome by the poignancy of the situation. Here was a girl who had frankly admitted that in her opinion he was Prince Charming galloping up on his white horse and would have liked nothing better than to be folded in his embrace and hugged till her ribs squeaked, and here was he all eagerness to do the folding and hugging, and no chance of business resulting because the honour of the Bodkins said it mustnât. Beat that for irony, he thought as he rubbed his shin. It was the sort of thing Thomas Hardy would have got a three-volume novel out of.
Having intensely enjoyed, and positively reviewed, The Luck of the Bodkins the other day, I thought I might as well go right ahead and review the sequel, Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkin. (Monty also figures largely in a previous book, Heavy Weather, a Blandings story. Iâll have to be getting on to that one too, though it will be out of sequence.)
PG & MB redresses one of the few niggling problems that exist with TLOtB, otherwise a near-perfect confection. The sensitive reader canât avoid the nagging sense that in getting engaged to Gertrude Butterwick, All England field hockey player, Monty has made a blunder. Monty is much like Bertie Wooster â except that he wants to be married â and one can hear Jeeves saying, if Bertie had ever found himself handcuffed to La Butterwick, âThe young lady is undoubtedly healthy and vigorous, sir. But might I suggest that a person with her record of breaking multiple engagements might conceivably be a touch too volatile in temperament for the establishment of a felicitous domestic partnership?â
In short, the reader wants Monty to be happy, and under Gertrudeâs thumb heâs likely to sink to the level of a third-rate power. Monty requires a woman a little more cheerful. A little more trusting. A woman less subservient to the commands of her blighted, vegetarian father.
So when Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkin opens, one year to the day from the close of the previous novel â
[At this point I need to break off and blather a moment about the question of time in Wodehouse. The Luck of the Bodkins was published in 1935, and somewhere in the last couple pages itâs mentioned that Prohibition was recently repealed in the US. Montyâs deal with Gertrudeâs father calls for him to hold a paying job for one year before they can be married. At the beginning of PG & MB, weâre told that that year has now passed. But PG & MB was published in 1972, nearly forty years later. One of its first pages mentions TV studio audiences. In the dreary world you and I inhabit, there was no point in history at which the first thing could have been separated by a single year from the second. But this is Wodehouse world, that foretaste of Paradise in which time exists only for the purposes of the story, and the world never changes much.]
So, as I was saying, this book starts one year after we left off. Monty has been toiling away, doing unspecified tasks, as a technical advisor at Superba-Llewellyn Studios in Hollywood. His secretary, Sandy Miller, has fallen head-over-espadrilles in love with him, but she knows his heart belongs to Gertrude. And now, he announces, heâs headed back to England to claim his bride.
However, when he arrives, Monty finds old Mr. Butterwick unwilling to close the deal. He has learned, he tells Monty, that Monty acquired his job with Superba-Llewellyn through blackmail (which is true), and so it doesnât count. Monty finally persuades the old blighter to give him one more year.
Then Sandy shows up, to his surprise. Sheâs in England with her boss, Ivor Llewellyn, who has taken a country house for an extended sojourn. He has done this at the bidding of his imperious wife Grayce, who wants him to write a history of his studio. In fact, he needs a secretary to help him with the book. The perfect job for Monty!
The action switches to the country house at that point, and comes to focus on a valuable pearl necklace currently belonging to Grayce, a gift from Ivor. Ivor confesses to Monty that, because Grayce has him on a strict budget, he pawned the necklace some time back and replaced it with cultured pearls. Now their daughter is getting married, and the necklace is supposed to go to her. Ivor will pay Monty handsomely to steal the necklace and drop it in the water somewhere. They are unaware that there are three actual jewel thieves also staying in the house, plotting to relieve him of the job.
In terms of classic Wodehouse prose, Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkin stands equal to any other work in his corpus, despite the fact that he was over 90 when it was published. Plot-wise, Iâd have to say heâd slipped a little. The book seems to wrap up prematurely, with a lot of possible plot twists passed over. There are long stretches where Monty really has no problems at all, and just seems unaware of it.
Still, a very amusing book, and itâs great to see Monty settle with a suitable girl.
One morning Karlsefniâs men saw something shiny above a clearing in the trees, and they called out. It moved and proved to be a one-legged creature which darted down to where the ship lay tied. Thorvald, Eirik the Redâs son, was at the helm and the one-legged man shot an arrow into his intestine. Thorvald drew the arrow out and spoke: âFat paunch that was. Weâve found a land of fine resources, though weâll hardly enjoy much of them.â Thorvald died from the wound shortly after. The one-legged man then ran off back north. They pursued him and caught glimpses of him now and then. He then fled into a cove and they turned back. (Eirik the Redâs Saga)
I hope I donât cause any embarrassment when I publicly thank my friend (and our frequent commenter) Dale Nelson, formerly of Mayville State University in North Dakota, for these books. Along with his wife Dorothea, Dale has gifted me â entirely to my surprise â with the full, boxed set of The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. Itâs published by Leifur Eiriksson Publishing in Reykjavik, and is a collection of brand-new scholarly translations, carefully selected and edited by a team of scholars.
When you read the title, The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, youâll probably assume, as I did, that this is a collection of all the Icelandic sagas. Once Iâd read the introductions (there are several) I realized that that would involve a very large collection indeed. It would have to include legendary sagas of pre-historic legends, as well as later sagas about bishops, saints and courtly love. What the editors here mean by âthe sagas of Icelandersâ is in fact the classic sagas â the tales of the Icelandic settlers, heroes, and feuding in the Viking Age.
Just my meat, in fact. I have a good number of saga translations in my library already, but this collection gives me a set of uniformly high-quality translations living up to the latest standards of criticism. Iâm delighted to have it.
In this post Iâll review the first two translations in the first volume â Eirik the Redâs Saga and The Saga of the Greenlanders.
These two sagas are (as the editors freely confess) not the best, considered purely as texts. What we have is two different accounts based on the same original events, but developed into two highly divergent narratives. (This is embarrassing, I must admit, for someone like me who spends a lot of time defending the use of sagas as historical sources. But nobodyâs saying the saga texts didnât suffer alteration with time â only that they contain useful information, which certainly remains true even of the Vinland sagas. Weâve got an archaeological dig in Newfoundland to prove it.)
Generalizing a great deal, I can say that Eirik the Redâs Saga (I should mention that the editors here have chosen a different manuscript source from most previous translations, so this version is a little different from other published editions) describes Leif Eiriksson discovering Vinland (America) by accident, blown off course in a storm while sailing to Greenland from Norway. Later the focus switches to Thorfinn Karlsefni the Icelander, and his wife Gudrid.
The Saga of the Greenlanders, on the other hand, attributes the first sighting of land in Vinland to Bjarni Herjolfsson, who is similarly blown off course, but never touches land. Leif later buys his ship and makes a voyage of exploration, followed by two of his brothers, and Thorfinn Karlsefni, and finally his sanguine sister Freydis.
When I was young, most historians considered The Saga of the Greenlanders earlier and more reliable than Eirik the Redâs Saga. Today Iâm given to understand that historians consider both of them useful in parts. Both, it must be admitted, are also garbled in places, and contain preposterous elements.
What they have in common, it seems to me, is the fact that the story of Vinland is in a way secondary. The discovery is recounted, not primarily for its importance as a watershed historical event, but as a family achievement.
What lies behind both versions (it seems to this reader) is the fact that it was written by, and for, the descendants of the married couple Thorfinn Karlsefni and Gudrid the Far-Traveled. Both narratives mention (as briefly as possible) the fact that Gudrid was descended from slaves. This was embarrassing in that culture â though pretty common in Icelandic society, many of whose Norse pioneers had married slave women. Great pains are taken in both versions to explain to the reader that, in spite of her low birth, Gudrid was recognized as a remarkable person very early in her life. Then we are told of her many adventures, culminating in her pilgrimage to Rome late in life and her death as an anchoress, a highly respected woman.
This professional translator finds no fault in the translation here. Iâm not qualified to judge how well the Icelandic text is interpreted, but I know a clunky translation when I see one, and these two are very good, very smooth. I might also mention that the physical volumes are sturdily bound in signatures between handsome leather-covered boards, and the text, printed on heavy, acid-free paper, is in a highly readable font.
(One point that amused me is that, though the publisher uses Icelandic spelling in calling itself Leifur Eiriksson Publishing, the translators chose to use the more familiar form of âLeifâ in the text.)
The Complete Sagas of Icelanders is an expensive set, but if you can afford it, I recommend it highly.
ââŠWhy not take a chance? You would like Hollywood, you know. Everybody does. Girdled by the everlasting hills, bathed in eternal sunshine. Honest, it kind of gets to you. What I mean, thereâs something going on there all the time. Malibu. Catalina. Aqua Caliente. And if you arenât getting divorced yourself, thereâs always one of your friends is, and that gives you something to chat about in the long evenings. And it isnât half such a crazy place as they make out. I know two-three people in Hollywood that are part sane.â
Monty Bodkin, hero of P.G. Wodehouseâs The Luck of the Bodkins, is a fairly unassuming chap. Decent looking, and rich to boot. All he wants is to marry Gertrude Butterwick, stalwart member of the All England Womenâs Field Hockey team. But Gertrude, for all her charms, has a lamentable inclination to jealousy. While they were at Cannes, she noticed Monty appreciating the on-screen beauty of movie star Lotus Blossom, and she promptly broke their engagement. Now sheâs about to board the ship SS Atlantic, steaming off to America with her teammates.
So what weâve got is three young couples, two of whom are desperately trying, as fortunes alter, to find angles by which to manipulate Ivor into giving the guy a cushy Hollywood job. Except for Monty, who neither wants nor needs a job, but Gertrudeâs father expects him to hold one as a demonstration of character. As all this intrigue swirls around the dyspeptic movie tycoon, everyoneâs calculations are advanced and frustrated, in turn, by Albert Peasemarch, the well-meaning but not terribly bright room steward, sort of a Jeeves without the intellect.
I first read The Luck of the Bodkins back in the 1970s, and remembered it as one of my favorites. I am pleased to report that age has not dimmed, nor custom staled, its infinite variety. This particular novel is especially rich in Wodehouse Girls â those mercurial, impulsive, implacable creatures who rule their men absolutely and are clearly well on their ways to becoming those formidable Aunts who infest Bertie Woosterâs adventures. Lottie Blossom is a prime example, and one of my personal favorites.
Highly, highly recommended. I laughed out loud, at frequent intervals.
I usually top a book review with a picture of the bookâs cover, but the Kindle version of the book Iâm dealing with tonight is a generic free book design. So instead, I present you a picture of the gigantic statue of Frithiof the Bold that overlooks the Sognefjord in Norway. Iâve seen it, but only from a distance, as I cruised in a ship on the fjord. This statue was erected by none other than Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany, who was a huge fan of Frithiofâs Saga, which Iâll be reviewing tonight. I figured it had been a while since Iâd reviewed a saga, and Frithiofâs, though a legendary one, has many points of interest, not least for its reception in fairly modern times. Iâve written about it before, a number of years ago, but I have more to say now. I read The Story of Frithiof the Bold in Eirikr Magnussonâs and William Morrisâ classic translation.
Frithiof (or Fridtjof, there are variable spellings) is the son of a minor Viking chieftain. His family lives on one side of the Sognefjord in Norway, while King Beri lives on the other. The king and Frithiofâs father are good friends, but their sons donât get along. Frithiof is (of course) tall, handsome, strong, and bold â everything a Viking should be. The kingâs sons seem capable enough, but Frithiof always outshines them, and they hate him for it. Their sister Ingibiorg, however, likes Frithiof very well, and they make personal vows to each other. At one point, when the king and the brothers are away, Frithiof dallies with Ingibiorg in the god Baldurâs sacred precincts, where such carryings-on are forbidden.
So when King Beri dies, the kingsâ sons send Frithiof on a diplomatic mission, to collect tribute in Orkney. While heâs gone, they burn down his farm and marry Ingibiorg off to old King Ring of Ringerike in eastern Norway.
After many adventures, Frithiof comes to serve (under an alias) in King Ringâs court. In that capacity, he becomes the kingâs protector. He gets the chance to kill him, but resists the temptation. This leads ultimately to that rarest of elements in a saga â a happy ending.
My own reading (even in Magnussonâs and Morrisâ very Victorian translation) suggests that this interpretation is not entirely correct. Frithiof is admirable, indeed, in not killing the king who had married the girl he loved. But for the saga audience, his virtue lies not so much in forgiveness and finding a peaceful solution (the name Frithiof actually means âpeace-thiefâ), but in his living up to the ethos of his culture, at some personal cost. Frithiofâs enemies are Ingibiorgâs brothers, not King Ring, who has acted honorably throughout. On top of that, he was a good and brave king, deserving of honor. Frithiof has sworn oaths to protect Ring, so protect him he does. His treatment of Ingibiorgâs brothers will be rather different. They’ve treated him treacherously, and can expect little mercy from him.
Reading The Story of Frithiof the Bold from my own perspective, as a lifelong student of Erling Skjalgsson of Sola, I discovered certain parallels to Erlingâs own saga, as preserved in Heimskringla. They’re intriguing and (I must admit) a little troubling.
For instance, at one point Frithiof is offered the title of king, but refuses it because none of his ancestors were kings. Erling does that very thing, as you may recall from The Year of the Warrior. (Though Frithiof does accept a kingship at the end of the story.) Also, thereâs an objection to Frithiofâs marrying Ingibiorg, because he doesnât have high enough rank. Similar, again, to Erlingâs story. Also, the line from the poem BjarkamĂĄl, âBreast to breast the eagles will claw each other,â is quoted in both tales.
Then weâre told that Frithiof eventually came to rule Hordaland, the homeland of Erlingâs own family. I wouldnât be surprised to learn that Frithiof was one of Erlingâs ancestors. It may well be that Snorri had Frithiof in mind when he wrote about Erling.
The Story of Frithiof the Bold is worth reading, though Iâm not a great fan of the antique diction Magnusson and Morris employ. (I have to admit, though, that that gimmick allows them to use actual Old Norse words as archaisms from time to time.) Certainly, as in the 19th Century, it remains one of the most accessible saga tales.
The Choir of Christ Church, Georgetown, Washington, D. C. performing “Welcome, Happy Morning!”
Venantius Honorius Clematianus Fortunatus (530-609) wrote the original text to our Easter hymn today. When I looked for a video of it, I found several recordings of a version that includes the first of these verses before moving into less Christocentric thoughts. The words below come from the Trinity Hymnal and are performed in by The Choir of Christ Church above.
This weekend is what life on earth is about. Praise the Living God who made us and redeemed us for his own glory. Happy Easter, everyone!
1 “Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say: hell today is vanquished; heav’n is won today. Lo! the Dead is living, God forevermore! Him, their true Creator, all his works adore.
2 Maker and Redeemer, life and health of all, thou, from heav’n beholding human nature’s fall, of the Father’s God-head true and only Son, manhood to deliver, manhood didst put on.
3 Thou, of life the author, death didst undergo, tread the path of darkness, saving strength to show; come then, True and Faithful, now fulfil thy word, ’tis thine own third morning; rise, O buried Lord.
4 Loose the souls long prisoned, bound with Satan’s chain; thine that now are fallen raise to life again; show thy face in brightness, bid the nations see; bring again our daylight; day returns with thee.
