Last Thursday, one of my friends recommended a book to me. He claimed it was a "laugh out loud comedy book that he could read again and again."
The book? Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse.
My friend also made a point to say that Wodehouse has a way with the English language which he personally feels can only be equaled in the writing of Rudyard Kipling. I would guess he knows; he has read 92 of Wodehouse's 96 novels.
I've had friends recommend books before:
One person recommended his favorite book. I read it, was disappointed with it and thought less of the man from then on. It was a lot of pressure for one little book that the man had liked several years previous.
Recently, I have fared better. One friend recommended a book. I read it, didn't like it at all, and never thought less of the person. In fact, when he has recommended other books, I gave them a try and found I really liked them. Other people have recommended books that I have felt free to like or dislike with no bad feeling on either side. (I hope)
When this friend, then, recommended Leave it to Psmith (the p is silent) I was determined to read it with an open mind and not connect him to it.
I read the book over the weekend and thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, I was sorry to have it come to an end, not because the plot was lacking tying up its ends but because it was a book that entertained from start to finish.
But try as I might, I could not get my friend out of my head. I felt like I was coming to a better understanding on how he saw the world and what he truly enjoyed. I found myself rejoicing to know such a friend as him.