Perish the Thought

In the course of toiling away for my BA (Calcutta) Failed, I had to take a unit on literary theory. You know, death of the author and all that crap. It was traumatic, and it left its scars. Even now I feel faint when I'm walking down the street and I pass people who mention, in casual conversation, ghastly words like Derrida and semiotics.

Pass the smelling salts!

Anyway, this is all by way of saying that as the years carry me a safer distance from those trying times, I sometimes wonder if those brainy, froggy theorists weren't on to something. I'm re-reading Joy in the Morning, one of my faves in the Jeeves and Wooster canon. On the bus on Friday morning I came across a passage, the language of which would have mildly entertained the 1947 reader, and would no doubt also amuse a reader in 2006, though most likely for different reasons.

A character by the name of J. Chichester Clam is being discussed. He is a hirsute chap and has chosen to go to a fancy dress ball as Edward the Confessor.

Now, read on and make your own judgements:

I nodded understandingly. I thought Clam's choice was good.

"A bearded
bozo, was he not, this Edward?" I asked.

"To the eyebrows," said Uncle Percy. "Those were the days when the world was a solid mass of beavers. I shall keep my eye open for something that looks like a burst horsehair sofa, and that will be Clam."