Idiosyncratically funny. ( )

Short, quaint reminisces of 1910's Ohio life. Took maybe an hour to read.

Deeply funny? No. More like good natured in a mannered Midwestern way.

Does this book make clear why there is a humor award named after its author? No. ( )

http://tinyurl.com/neqwdu

I'm not sure I agree that Thurber has been our (American) best humor writer, or our best short story writer. What about Raymond Carver? Doesn't Jon Stewart count?

Certainly, I find his writing humorous, but I also find it a bit monotonous. In this semi-autobiography, I tired easily of the bumblings in the dark. There were far, far too many of these stories. The electric car piece is hands-down the best of them all, but I feel he never achieves that level again in the "collection." His cartoons are consistently amusing, and since he started as a humorist in that arena, I wish he had further developed that.

However, it looks like I ought to try his short stories instead. Since it is mentioned in the short biography at the back of this book, I sought out "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" and nearly died laughing. "Pocketa-queep"-- oh, my stars.

It could be that it's just too tough to write about your own life, and easier to make up someone else's. It sounds like his life was indeed difficult, at least towards the end (he went blind). While laughter is the best tonic, it felt to me as if he was either making up the humor in his strange family's turmoils or deliberately over-exaggerating it to allay the pain. ( )

These are short and fantastical autobiographical sketches of Thurber's childhood. He has a style-- maybe it's better described as an attitude toward his characters-- that I don't think I've ever seen before. He's writing about crazy people doing ridiculous things. Somehow he manages to convey a disgust for these silly antics while maintaining a warmhearted affection for the people. It allows him to write a book of biting satire that is still, at bottom, tender. It's neat.

The whole short book is great, but my favorite moment came on the second page. When I read this on the bus Thursday morning, I made an ass of myself trying not to laugh out loud.

Thurber is cataloging the phobias of his family members. His cousin was terrified of suffocating in his sleep, and so kept a tin of camphor beside the bed to revive himself, should he wake up half-dead. His Aunt Grace kept shoes inside her bedroom door and, every night when she thought she heard burglars, would crack open the door and thrown shoes down the hall.

The one that made me snort and choke on the bus, though, was this bit:

Then there was Aunt Sarah Shoaf, who never went to bed at night without the fear that a burglar was going to get in and blow chloroform under her door through a tube. To avert this calamity-- for she was in greater dread of anesthetics than of losing her household goods-- she always piled her money, silverware, and other valuables in a neat stack just outside her bedroom, with a note reading: "This is all I have. Please take it and do not use your chloroform, as this is all I have." ( )

Wonderfully funny, as is all Thurber.