
You've got to love someone who can write about themselves thus:
"Owing to my having become mentally arrested at an early age, I write the sort of books which people, not knowing the facts, assume to be the work of a cheerful, if backward, young fellow of about twenty-five. Well, well, they tell one another, we might do worse than hear what this youngster has to say. Get the rising generation point of view, and all that. And what happens? We have with us tonight, Mr. P. G. Wodehouse ... and on totters a spavined septuagenarian, his bald head coated with pancake flour to keep it from shining and his palsied limbs twitching feebly like those of a galvanized frog. Little wonder that when the half-yearly score sheet reaches me some months later I find that sales have been what publishers call slow again. America's book-buyers have decided as one book-buyer to keep the money in the old oak chest, and I don't blame them. I wouldn't risk a nickel on anyone who looks as I do on the television screen."