I love A Century of Books, I really do. But I hate the feeling of doom that encroaches as I slack off and my list of books to review grows ever longer. (On the plus side, this means I am reading from years that are part of my Century and not going entirely off piste again. Hurrah for me!) The only way to silence this dread is with action and so I give you three very brief reviews of three very different and not entirely memorable books. They vary from not at all good to absolutely delightful but all three are guaranteed to disappear from your memory relatively fast.
Let’s start in 1948 with the instantly forgettable Pirouette by Susan Scarlett. Scarlett was the pen name under which Noel Streatfeild wrote a dozen light and extraordinary gentle romances. They are all formulaic and trite but generally enjoyable. Unfortunately, this one was just trite and formulaic. It’s the story of Judith Nell, a young ballerina (and young means very young – only 18), who has just been offered a big professional break. At the same time, her boyfriend accepts a job in Rhodesia and asks her to marry and go with him. In the background are discontented ballerinas – one of whom is more than happy to go out dancing and drinking (and who knows what else’ing) with Paul while Judith struggles with her decision – and young men who see no future in England, only in Africa. As we know, that’s not going to end at all well for anyone. There are class struggles, career struggles, and familial struggles and yet it all manages to be quite dull. The only good thing about it is the portrait of Judith’s family and how all its members struggle because of Mrs Nell’s stage mother ways. It’s a bit overwrought but essentially good, especially the conspiracies that spring up between the other members of the family as they try to out manoeuvre Mrs Nell.
Much better but still forgettable was Meet Mr Mulliner by P.G. Wodehouse from 1927. Mr Mulliner is a slight variation on The Oldest Member, here to regale unwilling listeners with stories of his family’s comic exploits (rather than The Oldest Member’s golf-focused yarns). While I was delighted by the career of Mr Mulliner’s nephew Augustine, a once meek curate whose entire life is changed thanks to an extraordinarily effective potion created by his relative Wilfred Mulliner (whose tale is also told), the rest of the stories were a bit too repetitive and never truly caught my attention. That said, a little Wodehouse is better than none.
And in the entirely satisfactory category of “frothy and forgettable but enjoyable” we have Every Frenchman Has One by Olivia de Havilland. First published in 1961 and recently reissued, this is a very amusing little book of de Havilland’s observations as an American among the French. Shortly after divorcing her first husband, de Havilland met a charming Frenchman while attending the Cannes film festival. Soon enough she was moving to France with her small son and marrying her Frenchman, taking on both a new spouse, a new country, and an entirely new culture. Her stumbles as she finds her way are recounted with an impressively light touch and it’s delightful to see her enjoyment of the country. And it’s one an enjoyment that hasn’t faded – she moved there in the mid-1950s and is there still at age 102.
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After months of anticipation, a very great event occurred last Sunday: I became an aunt. Arguably, that was the least of the changes: my brother and sister-in-law became parents, two sets of existing parents became grandparents, and a small and rather wonderful girl came into being.
As I’ve said before, one of the great pleasures of reading P.G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters edited by Sophie Ratcliffe has been learning Plum’s thoughts on books and other authors. I’ve shared how he 
The Captive Reader 