P G WODEHOUSE PDF

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We offer P. G. Wodehouse's books here for free download in pdf and prc format - just what's needed for students searching for quotes. My Man Jeeves P. G. Right Ho, Jeeves P. G. Index of The Project Gutenberg Works of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse downloads. Wodehouse, an English humorist who contributed to the literary world in many forms such as novels, poems, plays, short stories and lyrics. Right Ho, Jeeves has Wodehouse popular characters Jeeves, Bertie Wooster, and Aunt Dahlia Traver.. Wodehouse, remembered for his novels such as.


P G Wodehouse Pdf

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P.G. Wodehouse ebooks: read or download for free. formatTheodore Dreiser11 books in djvu formatWilkie Collins57 books in pdf formatHenri Bergson6 books. P. G. WODEHOUSE old salts who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influ- ence in that little community of sailormen. “That's just how I found him,”. P.G. WODEHOUSE. ANOTHER day had dawned all hot and fresh and, in pursuance of my unswerving policy at that time, I was singing 'Sonny Boy' in my bath.

The Intrusion of Jimmy [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Little Nugget [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Little Warrior [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Man Upstairs and Other Stories [ pdf ] [ prc ].

The Man with Two Left Feet [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Politeness of Princes [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Pothunters [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Prince and Betty [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The Swoop [ pdf ] [ prc ]. The White Feather [ pdf ] [ prc ]. Three Men and a Maid [ pdf ] [ prc ]. Uneasy Money [ pdf ] [ prc ]. William Tell Told Again [ pdf ] [ prc ].

Click here. Free e-books by P. Follow freeclassics. Free downloads of books by P G Wodehouse Website problems? We offer P. Wodehouse's books here for free download in pdf and prc format - just what's needed for students searching for quotes. Fellows who know all about that sort of thing -- detectives, and so on -- will tell you that the most difficult thing in the world is to get rid of the body.

I remember, as a kid, having to learn by heart a poem about a bird by the name of Eugene Aram, who had the deuce of a job in this respect. All I can recall of the actual poetry is the bit that goes: Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tumty-tum, I slew him, tum-tum tum! But I recollect that the poor blighter spent much of his valuable time dumping the corpse into ponds and burying it, and what not, only to have it pop out at him again. It was about an hour after I had shoved the parcel into the drawer when I realized that I had let myself in for just the same sort of thing.

Florence had talked in an airy sort of way about destroying the manuscript; but when one came down to it, how the deuce can a chap destroy a great chunky mass of paper in somebody else's house in the middle of summer? I couldn't ask to have a fire in my bedroom, with the thermometer in the eighties. And if I didn't burn the thing, how else could I get rid of it? Fellows on the battlefield eat dispatches to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy, but it would have taken me a year to eat Uncle Willoughby's Recollections.

I'm bound to say the problem absolutely baffled me. The only thing seemed to be to leave the parcel in the drawer and hope for the best. I don't know whether you have ever experienced it, but it's a dashed unpleasant thing having a crime on one's conscience.

Towards the end of the day the mere sight of the drawer began to depress me. I found myself getting all on edge; and once when Uncle Willoughby trickled silently into the smoking-room when I was alone there and spoke to me before I knew he was there, I broke the record for the sitting high jump.

I was wondering all the time when Uncle Willoughby would sit up and take notice.

P. G. Wodehouse

I didn't think he would have time to suspect that anything had gone wrong till Saturday morning, when he would be expecting, of course, to get the acknowledgement of the manuscript from the publishers. But early on Friday evening he came out of the library as I was passing and asked me to step in.

He was looking considerably rattled. As you know, I dispatched the manuscript of my book to Messrs Riggs and Ballinger, the publishers, yesterday afternoon.

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It should have reached them by the first post this morning. Why I should have been uneasy I cannot say, but my mind was not altogether at rest respecting the safety of the parcel. I therefore telephoned to Messrs Riggs and Ballinger a few moments back to make inquiries. To my consternation they informed me that they were not yet in receipt of my manuscript. But here is a sinister thing.

I have spoken to Oakshott, who took the rest of the letters to the post office, and he cannot recall seeing it there.

He is, indeed, unswerving in his assertions that when he went to the hall to collect the letters there was no parcel among them. I incline to the belief that the parcel has been stolen.

Surely not! Hear me out. Though I have said nothing to you before, or to anyone else, concerning the matter, the fact remains that during the past few weeks a number of objects -- some valuable, others not -- have disappeared in this house.

The conclusion to which one is irresistibly impelled is that we have a kleptomaniac in our midst. It is a peculiarity of kleptomania, as you are no doubt aware, that the subject is unable to differentiate between the intrinsic values of objects.

He will purloin an old coat as readily as a diamond ring, or a tobacco pipe costing but a few shillings with the same eagerness as a purse of gold. The fact that this manuscript of mine could be of no possible value to any outside person convinces me that --' 'But, uncle, one moment; I know all about those things that were stolen.

It was Meadowes, my man, who pinched them. I caught him snaffling my silk socks. Right in die act, by Jove! Send for the man at once and question him. You see, directly I found that he was a sock-sneaker I gave him die boot. That's why I went to London -- to get a new man. The whole thing is inexplicable. Uncle Willoughby pottered about die room, registering baffledness, while I sat sucking at a cigarette, feeling rather like a chappie I'd once read about in a book, who murdered another cove and hid the body under the dining-room table, and then had to be the life and soul of a dinner party, with it there all the time.

My guilty secret oppressed me to such an extent that after a while I couldn't stick it any longer. I lit another cigarette and started for a stroll in the grounds, by way of cooling off. It was one of those still evenings you get in the summer, when you can hear a snail clear its throat a mile away. The sun was sinking over the hills and the gnats were fooling about all over the place, and everything smelled rather topping -- what with the falling dew and so on -- and I was just beginning to feel a little soothed by the peace of it all when suddenly I heard my name spoken.

For a moment I couldn't locate it. Then I realized that it came from the library. My stroll had taken me within a few yards of the open window. I had often wondered how those Johnnies in books did it -- I mean the fellows with whom it was the work of a moment to do about a dozen things that ought to have taken them about ten minutes. But, as a matter of fact, it was the work of a moment with me to chuck away my cigarette, swear a bit, leap about ten yards, dive into a bush that stood near the library window, and stand there with my ears flapping.

I was as certain as I've ever been of anything that all sorts of rotten things were in the offing. I heard you talking to him just now. I believe he's got it. Everything seemed against me. I was discussing the disappearance of my manuscript with Bertie only a moment back, and lie professed himself as perplexed by the mystery as myself. I could see it, though he tried to keep it behind his back. And then he asked me to go to the smoking-room and snip some cigars for him; and about two minutes afterwards he came down - and he wasn't carrying anything.

So it must be in his room. Devilish thoughtless and inconsiderate of them, I call it. Look at the trouble it causes. I'll tell you what you might do. You might say that Mr Berkeley wired that he had left something here.

He had Bertie's room, you know. You might say you wanted to look for it. I --' I didn't wait to hear any more. Things were getting too hot. I sneaked softly out of my bush and raced for the front door. I sprinted up to my room and made for the drawer where I had put the parcel. And then I found I hadn't the key. It wasn't for the deuce of a time that I recollected I had shifted it to my evening trousers the night before and must have forgotten to take it out again. Where the dickens were my evening things?

I had looked all over the place before I remembered that Jeeves must have taken them away to brush.

To leap at the bell and ring it was, with me, the work of a moment. I had just rung it when there was a footstep outside, and in came Uncle Willoughby. I cannot find it downstairs and it has, therefore, occurred to me that he may have left it in this room.

I will -- er -- just take a look round. I must -- ah -- spare no effort. It is -- er -- possibly in one of the drawers. He pulled out drawer after drawer, pottering round like an old bloodhound, and babbling from time to time about Berkeley and his cigarette-case in a way that struck me as perfectly ghastly. I just stood there, losing weight every moment.

Then he came to the drawer where the parcel was. It -- it's -- er -- locked, and all that sort of thing. It was in the pocket of your evening trousers. He had shimmered in, carrying my evening things, and was standing there holding out the key. I could have massacred the man. I shut my eyes. The drawer is empty.

Love Among The Chickens

Thank you, Bertie. I hope I have not disturbed you. I fancy -- er -- Berkeley must have taken his case with him after all.

Then I turned to Jeeves. The man was putting my evening things out on a chair. I chanced to. I didn't see her till we were all having tea in the hall.

It's this way --' And I was just going to explain how things stood when out of the library came leaping Uncle Willoughby, looking as braced as a two-year-old. The old boy was a changed man. I have just been speaking with Mr Riggs on the telephone, and he tells me he received my manuscript by the first post this morning.

I cannot imagine what can have caused the delay. Our postal facilities are extremely inadequate in the rural districts.

I shall write to headquarters about it. It is insufferable if valuable parcels are to be delayed in this fashion. Uncle Willoughby meandered back to the library, and there was a silence that you could have dug bits out of with a spoon.

I can understand it perfectly, Bertie. Your heart failed you. Rather than risk offending your uncle you --' 'No, no! Perhaps you did not think I meant what I said. I meant every word.

The Man Upstairs and Other Stories By PG Wodehouse

Our engagement is ended. I see now that your Aunt Agatha was perfectly right. I consider that I have had a very lucky escape. There was a time when I thought that, with patience, you might be moulded into something worth while.

I see now that you are impossible! When I had collected the debris to some extent I went to my room and rang for Jeeves.

He came in looking as if nothing had happened or was ever going to happen. He was the calmest thing in captivity. I acted for the best, sir. I think that both you and Lady Florence overestimated the danger of people being offended at being mentioned in Sir Willoughby's Recollections.

But I have followed his work fairly closely since , when I was eight years old, and am well acquainted with its peculiar mental atmosphere — an atmosphere which has not, of course, remained completely unchanged, but shows little alteration since about A thing that people often forget about P.

We think of him as in some sense typifying the silliness of the nineteen-twenties and nineteen-thirties, but in fact the scenes and characters by which he is best remembered had all made their appearance before Psmith first appeared in , having been foreshadowed by other characters in early school stories.

Blandings Castle , with Baxter and the Earl of Emsworth both in residence, was introduced in The Jeeves — Wooster cycle began in , both Jeeves and Wooster having made brief appearances earlier. Ukridge appeared in The first is the school-story period. Psmith in the City , published in the following year, belongs in this category, though it is not directly concerned with school life.

The next is the American period. Wodehouse seems to have lived in the United States from about to , and for a while showed signs of becoming Americanized in idiom and outlook. Henry , and other books written about this time contain Americanisms e. Nevertheless, almost all the books of this period — Psmith, Journalist ; The Little Nugget ; The Indiscretions of Archie ; Piccadilly Jim and various others — depend for their effect on the contrast between English and American manners.

English characters appear in an American setting, or vice versa: there is a certain number of purely English stories, but hardly any purely American ones. The third period might fitly be called the country-house period. By the early nineteen-twenties Wodehouse must have been making a very large income, and the social status of his characters moved upwards accordingly, though the Ukridge stories form a partial exception.

The typical setting is now a country mansion, a luxurious bachelor flat or an expensive golf club. The school-boy athleticism of the earlier books fades out, cricket and football giving way to golf, and the element of farce and burlesque becomes more marked.

No doubt many of the later books, such as Summer Lightning , are light comedy rather than pure farce, but the occasional attempts at moral earnestness which can be found in Psmith, Journalist; The Little Nugget; The Coming of Bill ; The Man with Two Left Feet and some of the school stories, no longer appear. Mike Jackson has turned into Bertie Wooster. That, however, is not a very startling metamorphosis, and one of the most noticeable things about Wodehouse is his lack of development.

How much of a formula the writing of his later books had become one can see from the fact that he continued to write stories of English life although throughout the sixteen years before his internment he was living at Hollywood and Le Touquet. But though its incidents are largely farcical, it is by no means a satire on the public-school system, and The Gold Bat, The Pothunters, etc.

Wodehouse was educated at Dulwich, and then worked in a bank and graduated into novel writing by way of very cheap journalism. Psmith is similarly employed, though not from financial necessity. Both this book and Psmith, Journalist are unusual in that they display a certain amount of political consciousness. He enters upon his job without any pretence of enthusiasm, and his main desire is not, as one might expect, to find a more interesting and useful job, but simply to be playing cricket.

When he has to find himself lodgings he chooses to settle at Dulwich, because there he will be near a school and will be able to hear the agreeable sound of the ball striking against the bat. The climax of the book comes when Mike gets the chance to play in a county match and simply walks out of his job in order to do so.

The point is that Wodehouse here sympathises with Mike: indeed he identified himself with him, for it is clear enough that Mike bears the same relation to Wodehouse as Julien Sorel to Stendhal. But he created many other heroes essentially similar. Wodehouse is almost incapable of imagining a desirable job.

The great thing is to have money of your own, or, failing that, to find a sinecure. The hero of Something Fresh escapes from low-class journalism by becoming physical-training instructor to a dyspeptic millionaire: this is regarded as a step up, morally as well as financially. In the books of the third period there is no narcissism and no serious interludes, but the implied moral and social background has changed much less than might appear at first sight.

If one compares Bertie Wooster with Mike, or even with the rugger-playing prefects of the earliest school stories, one sees that the only real difference between them is that Bertie is richer and lazier.

His ideals would be almost the same as theirs, but he fails to live up to them. Archie Moffam, in The Indiscretions of Archie , is a type intermediate between Bertie and the earlier heroes: he is an ass, but he is also honest, kind-hearted, athletic and courageous. Most of the people whom Wodehouse intends as sympathetic characters are parasites, and some of them are plain imbeciles, but very few of them could be described as immoral. Even Ukridge is a visionary rather than a plain crook.

How closely Wodehouse sticks to conventional morality can be seen from the fact that nowhere in his books is there anything in the nature of a sex joke. This is an enormous sacrifice for a farcical writer to make. Not only are there no dirty jokes, but there are hardly any compromising situations: the horns-on-the-forehead motif is almost completely avoided. It is significant that Wodehouse, by nature a writer of farces, was able to collaborate more than once with Ian Hay, a serio-comic writer and an exponent vide Pip, etc.

In Something Fresh Wodehouse had discovered the comic possibilities of the English aristocracy, and a succession of ridiculous but, save in a very few instances, not actually contemptible barons, earls and what-not followed accordingly.

This had the rather curious effect of causing Wodehouse to be regarded, outside England, as a penetrating satirist of English society. Some time after the broadcasts from Berlin I was discussing them with a young Indian Nationalist who defended Wodehouse warmly. He took it for granted that Wodehouse had gone over to the enemy, which from his own point of view was the right thing to do.

But what interested me was to find that he regarded Wodehouse as an anti-British writer who had done useful work by showing up the British aristocracy in their true colours.

This is a mistake that it would be very difficult for an English person to make, and is a good instance of the way in which books, especially humorous books, lose their finer nuances when they reach a foreign audience.

For it is clear enough that Wodehouse is not anti-British, and not anti-upper-class either. On the contrary, a harmless old-fashioned snobbishness is perceptible all through his work. Just as an intelligent Catholic is able to see that the blasphemies of Baudelaire or James Joyce are not seriously damaging to the Catholic faith, so an English reader can see that in creating such characters as Hildebrand Spencer Poyns de Burgh John Hanneyside Coombe-Crombie , 12th Earl of Dreever, Wodehouse is not really attacking the social hierarchy.

Indeed, no one who genuinely despised titles would write of them so much. An American reader can mistake these two, and others like them, for hostile caricatures because he is inclined to be anglophobe already and they correspond to his preconceived ideas about a decadent aristocracy.

Bertie Wooster, with his spats and his cane, is the traditional stage Englishman.What, again? I laughed a light laugh. Something in that. Socking cops is a thing that should be done sparingly, if at all.

But do you really mean that if someone were to get away with it, it would be all up with Potato Chips training? My doctor ordered me a quiet life in the country. And one knew what happened to people. I wave a friendly hand at it.

HYON from Des Moines
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