Three Men in a Boat

Light, amusing and occasionally brilliantly written (I'm a sucker for alliteration). Full of digressions, each of which is just about precisely the right length.

> I do think that, of all the silly, irritating tomfoolishness by which we are plagued, this “weather-forecast” fraud is about the most aggravating. It “forecasts” precisely what happened yesterday or a the day before, and precisely the opposite of what is going to happen today. … But who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough when it comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand.

> We had just commenced the third course—the bread and jam—when a gentleman in shirtsleeves and a short pipe came along, and wanted to know if we knew show more that we were trespassing. We said we hadn’t given the matter sufficient consideration as yet to enable us to arrive at a definite conclusion on that point, but that, if he assured us on his word as a gentleman that we were trespassing, we would, without further hesitation, believe it. He gave us the required assurance, and we thanked him, but he still hung about, and seemed to be dissatisfied, so we asked him if there was anything further that we could do for him; and Harris, who is of a chummy disposition, offered him a bit of bread and jam.…

> It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me: the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart. You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become a passion with me: my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly an inch of room for any more. I shall have to throw out a wing soon. And I am careful of my work, too. Why, some of the work that I have by me now has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn’t a fingermark on it.

> The river—with the sunlight flashing from its dancing wavelets, gilding gold the grey-green beech-trunks, glinting through the dark, cool wood paths, chasing shadows o’er the shallows, flinging diamonds from the mill-wheels, throwing kisses to the lilies, wantoning with the weirs’ white waters, silvering moss-grown walls and bridges, brightening every tiny townlet, making sweet each lane and meadow, lying tangled in the rushes, peeping, laughing, from each inlet, gleaming gay on many a far sail, making soft the air with glory—is a golden fairy stream.

> But the river—chill and weary, with the ceaseless raindrops falling on its brown and sluggish waters, with a sound as of a woman, weeping low in some dark chamber; while the woods, all dark and silent, shrouded in their mists of vapour, stand like ghosts upon the margin; silent ghosts with eyes reproachful, like the ghosts of evil actions, like the ghosts of friends neglected—is a spirit-haunted water through the land of vain regrets. show less

I originally read this because I'm a big fan of Connie Willis and she went on and on about it, but when I actually read it, I was charmed for its own sake. :)

It's all so very droll.

Fish stories, laziness, incompetence, dishonesty, pathos and great verve stud these pages. It's an adventure for the ages! Of course, it's just three men in a boat, to say nothing of the dog.

Set in Victorian England, it captures the overblown hypochondriac feel of the age. :)

Well worth the read, and now I think I'm gonna hunt down takers for a first or re-read of Connie Willis' To Say Nothing of the Dog, which, I might add, might be a bit superior in every way. :)

Three men and another passenger of whom I cannot speak embark upon a watercraft to explore the upper reaches of the Thames. Jerome was poking fun at stuffy types who undertake adventures while believing bookish intelligence will adequately take the place of practical knowledge. I am happy to say I only read about these fools instead of adding to their number, keeping my foolishness at home where it belongs.

It's fun to know that long before people googled illness symptoms on the Internet they were already doing it in medical books and coming to the same erroneous conclusions. Modern technology merely makes this more convenient. Similarly, road-rage has a precursor in 19th century riverboating: "The mildest tempered people, when on land, show more become violent and blood-thirsty when in a boat." We are following a time-honoured tradition when we get behind the wheel and begin cursing everyone else.

Obligatory observation: strange tonal changes appear when the comedic adventure is rudely interrupted at unexpected times by poetical landscape descriptions or dramatically depicted historical scenes. Do not worry, more absurdity will soon follow. show less

Hee! And more hee! This is meandering and relatable and silly and almost infinitely charming. It’s pastiche and satire and travelogue and slice-of-life all rolled into one, with an unreliable narrator, long set-ups to the jokes, and pratfalls. So many pratfalls. Victorian literature this is not! Except that, of course, it is.

I’m still mulling over how Jerome made this work. It shouldn’t. There’s no plot or character development, just a series of moments and memories and general buffoonery. There’s barely even dialogue as we’re used to it! But the characters, especially the narrator J, absolutely shine and everything from the episodes to the colloquial narration feels timeless and familiar. I, too, have had trouble cooking show more scrambled eggs. I, too, have had nights out camping when I just can’t get comfortable. I, too, complain about traffic and get sentimental about views.

I think the real beauty of this book is that it works on many levels, because while I’m talking up the “look at this doofuses” comedy stuff, this is also a travelogue. It does tell you the sites and the history and the good pubs. It just also happens to be so over-the-top about it that it becomes a parody of travel guides—and there is the time capsule aspect too. Jerome’s portrait of English life and the Thames Valley of the 1880s is perfect. It’s a reminder that however stuffy the Victorians seem, they also had a fabulous sense of humour about themselves.

Recommended to anyone who likes silly British people or silly British books, but especially to fans of P.G. Wodehouse.

Warnings: One instance of the n-slur. Two instances of the g-slur within a single paragraph. One use of “Oriental” in reference to fashion. Victorian opinions of women not necessarily shared by the author.

8/10 show less

Jerome K. Jerome wrote a leisurely chronicle of a summer's boating holiday on the Thames. It was published in 1889 when he was only thirty years old. It was a success as a popular humorous book and has remained in print to this day. While some of the book is pure farce his main approach to humor was understatement and outrageous exaggeration in a style that reminds one of some of Twain's comic writings. He described his technique thus:

"Some people are under the impression that all that is required to make a good fisherman is the ability to tell lies easily and without blushing: but this is a mistake. Mere bald fabrication is useless; the veriest tyro can manage that. It is in the circumstantial detail, the embellishing touches of show more probability, the general air of scrupulous---almost pedantic---veracity, that the experienced angler is seen."

His humor relies on the diabolic malice of inanimate objects when they escape from civilization: of the infrangibility of cans when the can opener has been left behind, the ingenuity of an untended rope, the cunning of kettles and leaking kerosene. His narrator is known simply as J. while his companions are Harris and George (though they are somewhat shadowy characters) and of course there is Montmorency, the dog.

"To look at Montmorency you would imagine that he was an angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from mankind, in the shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-could-do-something-to-make-it-better-and -nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring tears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen."

With a convivial narrator and two friends, to say nothing of the dog, this tale of a boat trip is simply one of the funniest and most delightful short books that I have ever read. show less

"I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours." (pg. 144)

One of those rare, effortlessly enjoyable reads that is only heightened by how surprisingly fresh it is when you come across it. Upon first hearing of Three Men in a Boat, Jerome K. Jerome's 1889 jaunty travelogue, a modern reader feels a chill in their veins. 'Classic' Victorian 'humour', you think, preserved as fondly-remembered 'light' literature: surely it would be an absolute travesty; unfunny, overblown and aging about as well as the fashion sense?

Not a bit of it. It's not only Jerome's boat journey down the river Thames which is bracing, but the humour itself. Quite simply, the book is a delight to read; fresh, colourful, wholesome and legitimately show more funny. Jerome is a natural raconteur and his boyish banter with Harris and George, his two boon companions, shines through the pages. There are comic encounters, wry asides and satirical observations, all of which hit home. To keep the pace of his narrative running smoothly, Jerome frequently digresses into outlandish anecdotes to illustrate the point he is making; it proves to be a winning formula. And I've not yet said anything of the dog: the three men in a boat are accompanied by Montmorency, a fox terrier who "laboured under the fixed belief that, whenever Harris or George reached out their hand for anything, it was his cold damp nose that they wanted" (pg. 39).

I'm conflicted in how to approach this review, for though I want to produce some of the novel's funniest moments and asides as evidence for the book's casual charm, I find that most of them work much better in context; Jerome's set-up and narrative voice add a persistent tone to the piece that really makes it all work together. Suffice to say there are many good examples; a fact which itself recommends the book, considering it is less than 200 pages long.

The bum notes are few: there are occasional flowery digressions into more regular travelogue material, but these are harmless enough. The only real flaw came late on, when Jerome details finding the dead body of a suicidal woman floating in the river. It's hard to get back into the hat-at-a-jaunty-angle swing of things after that. Nevertheless, Three Men in a Boat is a surprising, endearing breeze of a book that would be charming enough if it was just relating a Victorian river-jaunt through lovely countryside. Adding genuine humour, camaraderie and a Bank Holiday picnic-y freshness makes this slight, unassuming volume something really special. show less

Generally, I dislike Victorian authors. Many, like Dickens, were writing for serialized publication in magazines for which they were paid by the word, and it shows. JKJ, on the other hand, strikes the right balance for a modern audience. His work is just florid enough to evoke an after-dinner conversation with a skilled raconteur. He has a fine sense of how long he can indulge in describing a place before moving on to something happening. 3MiaB is filled with fine dashes of gentle, self-deprecating irony and occasional stabbing wit. One need not be a scholar of 19th century history or literature to appreciate its content.