In Defence Of P. G. Wodehouse
George Orwell
WHEN the Germans made their rapid advance through Belgium in the early summer of 1940, they captured, among other things, Mr. P. G. Wodehouse, who had been living throughout the early part of the war in his villa at Le Touquet, and seems not to have realised until the last moment that he was in any danger. As he was led away into captivity, he is said to have remarked, “Perhaps after this I shall write a serious book.” He was placed for the time being under house arrest, and from his subsequent statements it appears that he was treated in a fairly friendly way, German officers in the neighbourhood frequently “dropping in for a bath or a party.”
Over a year later, on 25th June 1941, the news came that Wodehouse had been released from internment and was living at the Adlon Hotel in Berlin. On the following day the public was astonished to learn that he had agreed to do some broadcasts of a “non-political” nature over the German radio. The full texts of these broadcasts are not easy to obtain at this date, but Wodehouse seems to have done five of them between 26th June and 2nd July, when the Germans took him off the air again. The first broadcast, on 26th June, was not made on the Nazi radio but took the form of an interview with Harry Flannery, the representative of the Columbia Broadcasting System, which still had its correspondents in Berlin. Wodehouse also published in the Saturday Evening Post an article which he had written while still in the internment camp.
The article and the broadcasts dealt mainly with Wodehouse’s experiences in internment, but they did include a very few comments on the war. The following are fair samples:
“I never was interested in politics. I’m quite unable to work up any kind of belligerent feeling. Just as I’m about to feel belligerent about some country I meet a decent sort of chap. We go out together and lose any fighting thoughts or feelings.”
“A short time ago they had a look at me on parade and got the right idea; at least they sent us to the local lunatic asylum. And I have been there forty-two weeks. There is a good deal to be said for internment. It keeps you out of the saloon and helps you to keep up with your reading. The chief trouble is that it means you are away from home for a long time. When I join my wife I had better take along a letter of introduction to be on the safe side.”
“In the days before the war I had always been modestly proud of being an Englishman, but now that I have been some months resident in this bin or repository of Englishmen I am not so sure. … The only concession I want from Germany is that she gives me a loaf of bread, tells the gentlemen with muskets at the main gate to look the other way, and leaves the rest to me. In return I am prepared to hand over India, an autographed set of my books, and to reveal the secret process of cooking sliced potatoes on a radiator. This offer holds good till Wednesday week.”
The first extract quoted above caused great offence. Wodehouse was also censured for using (in the interview with Flannery) the phrase “whether Britain wins the war or not,” and he did not make things better by describing in another broadcast the filthy habits of some Belgian prisoners among whom he was interned. The Germans recorded this broadcast and repeated it a number of times. They seem to have supervised his talks very lightly, and they allowed him not only to be funny about the discomforts of internment but to remark that “the internees at Trost camp all fervently believe that Britain will eventually win.” The general upshot of the talks, however, was that he had not been ill treated and bore no malice.
These broadcasts caused an immediate uproar in England. There were questions in Parliament, angry editorial comments in the press, and a stream of letters from fellow-authors, nearly all of them disapproving, though one or two suggested that it would be better to suspend judgment, and several pleaded that Wodehouse probably did not realise what he was doing. On 15th July, the Home Service of the B.B.C. carried an extremely violent Postscript by “Cassandra” of the Daily Mirror, accusing Wodehouse of “selling his country.” This postscript made free use of such expressions as “Quisling” and “worshipping the Führer.” The main charge was that Wodehouse had agreed to do German propaganda as a way of buying himself out of the internment camp.
“Cassandra’s” Postscript caused a certain amount of protest, but on the whole it seems to have intensified popular feeling against Wodehouse. One result of it was that numerous lending libraries withdrew Wodehouse’s books from circulation. Here is a typical news item:
“Within twenty-four hours of listening to the broadcast of Cassandra, the Daily Mirror columnist, Portadown (North Ireland) Urban District Council banned P. G. Wodehouse’s books from their public library. Mr. Edward McCann said that Cassandra’s broadcast had clinched the matter. Wodehouse was funny no longer.” (Daily Mirror.)
In addition the B.B.C. banned Wodehouse’s lyrics from the air and was still doing so a couple of years later. As late as December 1944 there were demands in Parliament that Wodehouse should be put on trial as a traitor.
There is an old saying that if you throw enough mud some of it will stick, and the mud has stuck to Wodehouse in a rather peculiar way. An impression has been left behind that Wodehouse’s talks (not that anyone remembers what he said in them) showed him up not merely as a traitor but as an ideological sympathiser with Fascism. Even at the time several letters to the press claimed that “Fascist tendencies” could be detected in his books, and the charge has been repeated since. I shall try to analyse the mental atmosphere of those books in a moment, but it is important to realise that the events of 1941 do not convict Wodehouse of anything worse than stupidity. The really interesting question is how and why he could be so stupid. When Flannery met Wodehouse (released, but still under guard) at the Adlon Hotel in June 1941, he saw at once that he was dealing with a political innocent, and when preparing him for their broadcast interview he had to warn him against making some exceedingly unfortunate remarks, one of which was by implication slightly anti-Russian. As it was, the phrase “whether England wins or not” did get through. Soon after the interview Wodehouse told him that he was also going to broadcast on the Nazi radio, apparently not realising that this action had any special significance. Flannery comments:
“By this time the Wodehouse plot was evident. It was one of the best Nazi publicity stunts of the war, the first with a human angle. … Plack (Goebbels’s assistant) had gone to the camp near Gleiwitz to see Wodehouse, found that the author was completely without political sense, and had an idea. He suggested to Wodehouse that in return for being released from the prison camp he write a series of broadcasts about his experiences; there would be no censorship and he would put them on the air himself. In making that proposal Plack showed that he knew his man. He knew that Wodehouse made fun of the English in all his stories and that he seldom wrote in any other way, that he was still living in the period about which he wrote and had no conception of Nazism and all it meant. Wodehouse was his own Bertie Wooster.”
The striking of an actual bargain between Wodehouse and Plack seems to be merely Flannery’s own interpretation. The arrangement may have been of a much less definite kind, and to judge from the broadcasts themselves, Wodehouse’s main idea in making them was to keep in touch with his public and — the comedian’s ruling passion — to get a laugh. Obviously they are not the utterances of a Quisling of the type of Ezra Pound or John Amery, nor, probably, of a person capable of understanding the nature of Quislingism. Flannery seems to have warned Wodehouse that it would be unwise to broadcast, but not very forcibly. He adds that Wodehouse (though in one broadcast he refers to himself as an Englishman) seemed to regard himself as an American citizen. He had contemplated naturalisation, but had never filled in the necessary papers. He even used, to Flannery, the phrase, “We’re not at war with Germany.”
I have before me a bibliography of P. G. Wodehouse’s works. It names round about fifty books, but is certainly incomplete. It is as well to be honest, and I ought to start by admitting that there are many books by Wodehouse perhaps a quarter or a third of the total — which I have not read. It is not, indeed, easy to read the whole output of a popular writer who is normally published in cheap editions. But I have followed his work fairly closely since 1911, when I was eight years old, and am well acquainted with its peculiar mental atmosphere — an atmosphere which has not, of course, remained completely unchanged, but shows little alteration since about 1925. In the passage from Flannery’s book which I quoted above there are two remarks which would immediately strike any attentive reader of Wodehouse. One is to the effect that Wodehouse “was still living in the period about which he wrote,” and the other that the Nazi Propaganda Ministry made use of him because he “made fun of the English.” The second statement is based on a misconception to which I will return presently. But Flannery’s other comment is quite true and contains in it part of the clue to Wodehouse’s behaviour.
A thing that people often forget about P. G. Wodehouse’s novels is how long ago the better-known of them were written. We think of him as in some sense typifying the silliness of the nineteen-twenties and nineteen-thirties, but in fact the scenes and characters by which he is best remembered had all made their appearance before 1925. [...] When one looks through the list of Wodehouse’s books from 1902 onwards, one can observe three fairly well-marked periods. The first is the school-story period. [...] The next is the American period. Wodehouse seems to have lived in the United States from about 1913 to 1920, and for a while showed signs of becoming Americanised in idiom and outlook. [...] The third period might fitly be called the country-house period. By the early nineteen-twenties Wodehouse must have been making a very large income, and the social status of his characters moved upwards accordingly [...]. The typical setting is now a country mansion, a luxurious bachelor flat or an expensive golf club. The schoolboy athleticism of the earlier books fades out, cricket and football giving way to golf, and the element of farce and burlesque becomes more marked. [...] Mike Jackson has turned into Bertie Wooster. That, however, is not a very startling metamorphosis, and one of the most noticeable things about Wodehouse is his lack of development. [...] How much of a formula the writing of his later books had become one can see from the fact that he continued to write stories of English life although throughout the sixteen years before his internment he was living at Hollywood and Le Touquet.
[...]
In Something Fresh Wodehouse had discovered the comic possibilities of the English aristocracy, and a succession of ridiculous but, save in a very few instances, not actually contemptible barons, earls and what-not followed accordingly. This had the rather curious effect of causing Wodehouse to be regarded, outside England, as a penetrating satirist of English society. Hence Flannery’s statement that Wodehouse “made fun of the English,” which is the impression he would probably make on a German or even an American reader. Some time after the broadcasts from Berlin I was discussing them with a young Indian Nationalist who defended Wodehouse warmly. He took it for granted that Wodehouse had gone over to the enemy, which from his own point of view was the right thing to do. But what interested me was to find that he regarded Wodehouse as an anti-British writer who had done useful work by showing up the British aristocracy in their true colours. This is a mistake that it would be very difficult for an English person to make, and is a good instance of the way in which books, especially humorous books, lose their finer nuances when they reach a foreign audience. For it is clear enough that Wodehouse is not anti-British, and not anti-upper class either. On the contrary, a harmless old-fashioned snobbishness is perceptible all through his work. Just as an intelligent Catholic is able to see that the blasphemies of Baudelaire or James Joyce are not seriously damaging to the Catholic faith, so an English reader can see that in creating such characters as Hildebrand Spencer Poyns de Burgh John Hanneyside Coombe-Crombie, 12th Earl of Dreever, Wodehouse is not really attacking the social hierarchy. Indeed, no one who genuinely despised titles would write of them so much. Wodehouse’s attitude towards the English social system is the same as his attitude towards the public-school moral code — a mild facetiousness covering an unthinking acceptance. The Earl of Emsworth is funny because an earl ought to have more dignity, and Bertie Wooster’s helpless dependence on Jeeves is funny partly because the servant ought not to be superior to the master. An American reader can mistake these two, and others like them, for hostile caricatures, because he is inclined to be Anglophobe already and they correspond to his preconceived ideas about a decadent aristocracy. Bertie Wooster, with his spats and his cane, is the traditional stage Englishman. But, as any English reader would see, Wodehouse intends him as a sympathetic figure, and Wodehouse’s real sin has been to present the English upper classes as much nicer people than they are. All through his books certain problems are constantly avoided. Almost without exception his moneyed young men are unassuming, good mixers, not avaricious: their tone is set for them by Psmith, who retains his own upper-class exterior but bridges the social gap by addressing everyone as “Comrade.”
But there is another important point about Bertie Wooster: his out-of-dateness. Conceived in 1917 or thereabouts, Bertie really belongs to an epoch earlier than that. [...] A humorous writer is not obliged to keep up to date, and having struck one or two good veins, Wodehouse continued to exploit them with a regularity that was no doubt all the easier because he did not set foot in England during the sixteen years that preceded his internment. His picture of English society had been formed before 1914, and it was a naïve, traditional and, at bottom, admiring picture. [...] His books are aimed, not, obviously, at a highbrow audience, but at an audience educated along traditional lines. [...] In his radio interview with Flannery, Wodehouse wondered whether “the kind of people and the kind of England I write about will live after the war,” not realising that they were ghosts already. “He was still living in the period about which he wrote,” says Flannery, meaning, probably, the nineteen-twenties. But the period was really the Edwardian age, and Bertie Wooster, if he ever existed, was killed round about 1915.
If my analysis of Wodehouse’s mentality is accepted, the idea that in 1941 he consciously aided the Nazi propaganda machine becomes untenable and even ridiculous. He may have been induced to broadcast by the promise of an earlier release (he was due for release a few months later, on reaching his sixtieth birthday), but he cannot have realised that what he did would be damaging to British interests. As I have tried to show, his moral outlook has remained that of a public-school boy, and according to the public-school code, treachery in time of war is the most unforgivable of all the sins. But how could he fail to grasp that what he did would be a big propaganda score for the Germans and would bring down a torrent of disapproval on his own head? To answer this one must take two things into consideration. First, Wodehouse’s complete lack — so far as one can judge from his printed works — of political awareness. It is nonsense to talk of “Fascist tendencies” in his books. There are no post-1918 tendencies at all. Throughout his work there is a certain uneasy awareness of the problem of class distinctions, and scattered through it at various dates there are ignorant though not unfriendly references to Socialism. In The Heart of a Goof (1926) there is a rather silly story about a Russian novelist, which seems to have been inspired by the factional struggle then raging in the U.S.S.R. But the references in it to the Soviet system are entirely frivolous and, considering the date, not markedly hostile. That is about the extent of Wodehouse’s political consciousness, so far as it is discoverable from his writings. Nowhere, so far as I know, does he so much as use the word “Fascism” or “Nazism.” In left-wing circles, indeed in “enlightened” circles of any kind, to broadcast on the Nazi radio, to have any truck with the Nazis whatever, would have seemed just as shocking an action before the war as during it. But that is a habit of mind that had been developed during nearly a decade of ideological struggle against Fascism. The bulk of the British people, one ought to remember, remained anæsthetic to that struggle until late into 1940. Abyssinia, Spain, China, Austria, Czechoslovakia — the long series of crimes and aggressions had simply slid past their consciousness or were dimly noted as quarrels occurring among foreigners and “not our business.” One can gauge the general ignorance from the fact that the ordinary Englishman thought of “Fascism” as an exclusively Italian thing and was bewildered when the same word was applied to Germany. And there is nothing in Wodehouse’s writings to suggest that he was better informed, or more interested in politics, than the general run of his readers.
The other thing one must remember is that Wodehouse happened to be taken prisoner at just the moment when the war reached its desperate phase. We forget these things now, but until that time feelings about the war had been noticeably tepid. There was hardly any fighting, the Chamberlain Government was unpopular, eminent publicists were hinting that we should make a compromise peace as quickly as possible, trade union and Labour Party branches all over the country were passing anti-war resolutions. Afterwards, of course, things changed. The Army was with difficulty extricated from Dunkirk, France collapsed, Britain was alone, the bombs rained on London, Goebbels announced that Britain was to be “reduced to degradation and poverty.” By the middle of 1941 the British people knew what they were up against and feelings against the enemy were far fiercer than before. But Wodehouse had spent the intervening year in internment, and his captors seem to have treated him reasonably well. He had missed the turning-point of the war, and in 1941 he was still reacting in terms of 1939. He was not alone in this. On several occasions about this time the Germans brought captured British soldiers to the microphone, and some of them made remarks at least as tactless as Wodehouse’s. They attracted no attention, however. And even an outright Quisling like John Amery was afterwards to arouse much less indignation than Wodehouse had done.
But why? Why should a few rather silly but harmless remarks by an elderly novelist have provoked such an outcry? One has to look for the probable answer amid the dirty requirements of propaganda warfare.
There is one point about the Wodehouse broadcasts that is almost certainly significant — the date. Wodehouse was released two or three days before the invasion of the U.S.S.R., and at a time when the higher ranks of the Nazi party must have known that the invasion was imminent. It was vitally necessary to keep America out of the war as long as possible, and in fact, about this time, the German attitude towards the U.S.A. did become more conciliatory than it had been before. The Germans could hardly hope to defeat Russia, Britain and the U.S.A. in combination, but if they could polish off Russia quickly — and presumably they expected to do so — the Americans might never intervene. The release of Wodehouse was only a minor move, but it was not a bad sop to throw to the American isolationists. He was well known in the United States, and he was — or so the Germans calculated — popular with the Anglophobe public as a caricaturist who made fun of the silly-ass Englishman with his spats and his monocle. At the microphone he could be trusted to damage British prestige in one way or another, while his release would demonstrate that the Germans were good fellows and knew how to treat their enemies chivalrously. That presumably was the calculation, though the fact that Wodehouse was only broadcasting for about a week suggests that he did not come up to expectations.
But on the British side similar though opposite calculations were at work. For the two years following Dunkirk, British morale depended largely upon the feeling that this was not only a war for democracy but a war which the common people had to win by their own efforts. The upper classes were discredited by their appeasement policy and by the disasters of 1940, and a social levelling process appeared to be taking place. Patriotism and left-wing sentiments were associated in the popular mind, and numerous able journalists were at work to tie the association tighter. Priestley’s 1940 broadcasts, and “Cassandra’s” articles in the Daily Mirror, were good examples of the demagogic propaganda flourishing at that time. In this atmosphere, Wodehouse made an ideal whipping-boy. For it was generally felt that the rich were treacherous, and Wodehouse — as “Cassandra” vigorously pointed out in his broadcast — was a rich man. But he was the kind of rich man who could be attacked with impunity and without risking any damage to the structure of society. To denounce Wodehouse was not like denouncing, say, Beaverbrook. A mere novelist, however large his earnings may happen to be, is not of the possessing class. Even if his income touches £350,000 a year he has only the outward semblance of a millionaire. He is a lucky outsider who has fluked into a fortune — usually a very temporary fortune — like the winner of the Calcutta Derby Sweep. Consequently, Wodehouse’s indiscretion gave a good propaganda opening. It was a chance to “expose” a wealthy parasite without drawing attention to any of the parasites who really mattered.
In the desperate circumstances of the time, it was excusable to be angry at what Wodehouse did, but to go on denouncing him three or four years later — and more, to let an impression remain that he acted with conscious treachery — is not excusable. Few things in this war have been more morally disgusting than the present hunt after traitors and Quislings. At best it is largely the punishment of the guilty by the guilty. In France, all kinds of petty rats — police officials, penny-a-lining journalists, women who have slept with German soldiers — are hunted down while almost without exception the big rats escape. In England the fiercest tirades against Quislings are uttered by Conservatives who were practising appeasement in 1938 and Communists who were advocating it in 1940. I have striven to show how the wretched Wodehouse — just because success and expatriation had allowed him to remain mentally in the Edwardian age — became the corpus vile in a propaganda experiment, and I suggest that it is now time to regard the incident as closed. If Ezra Pound is caught and shot by the American authorities, it will have the effect of establishing his reputation as a poet for hundreds of years; and even in the case of Wodehouse, if we drive him to retire to the United States and renounce his British citizenship, we shall end by being horribly ashamed of ourselves. Meanwhile, if we really want to punish the people who weakened national morale at critical moments, there are other culprits who are nearer home and better worth chasing.
(1945)
_________________________________________________________
Wodehouse and the War
A friend once asked me:
> Was Wodehouse accused of Nazi sympathies?
Now you’ve done it: you got me started!
Many people in the UK (there I go, generalising again!), when PGW is mentioned, say something like “Wodehouse? Wasn’t he a traitor or something? Lord Haw-Haw?”
When hostilities broke out, Wodehouse was living in Le Touquet in France. When the Germans finally got to that part of France, they arrested Wodehouse and sent him to various internment camps. All male citizens of the UK received this treatment, and they were released at the age of 60. One official in the German government was a fan of PGW’s, so he arranged to have him released a couple of months before his 60th birthday. They wouldn’t allow him to leave Germany, though, so he (and Ethel) stayed at the Adlon Hotel in Berlin. They had to pay, and since PGW wasn’t getting his royalty cheques, Ethel had to sell her jewellery.
At this time, the US was not yet at war with Germany; so the German official suggested to PGW that he make a few broadcasts to his American fans on German radio. Wodehouse thought it would be a good way to let his fans know he was alright, and he made five broadcasts. These could in no way be construed as propaganda; they were merely a sort of memoir of his time in the internments camps and even poked some fun at the Germans. (I’ve heard that the CIA used them as an example of subtle anti-Nazi work.) They were not meant for the UK; indeed, it was late at night in England when they were broadcast so it’s highly unlikely anyone there actually heard them.
There appears to be little doubt that the Germans knew exactly what they were doing; their plan was that by releasing Wodehouse, they would appease the Americans (in particular, a senator named Barbour) and convince them to not enter the war; to “flatter American public opinion generally that American wishes were taken seriously by the German government” (Sproat). It certainly was poor judgement for PGW to speak on German radio, but the speeches themselves were completely innocent of any propaganda.
Someone in the British War Office got incensed that PGW was apparently “offering aid and comfort” to the enemy. They got a columnist called “Cassandra” (William Connor) to attack PGW, and wanted the BBC to carry it. The BBC didn’t want to get involved in what they saw as a personal attack but were later ordered to by Duff Cooper, who at the time was, I believe, the Minister of Information. Cassandra and Duff Cooper knew that the speeches were completely innocuous (they were told so by the governors of the BBC, which had monitored the first two of the broadcasts) so they didn’t publicise them; instead they resorted to innuendo and implied that PGW was “like” Lord Haw-Haw. And that the Germans put him up at the swank Adlon Hotel to repay him.
Another thing that most people remember is the interview Wodehouse gave to Harry Flannery of CBS on June 26, 1941. The remarks in question are:
| 1. |
“… I’m living here at the Adlon — have a suite on the third floor, a very nice one, too — and I come and go as I please…” |
| 2. |
Q. Do you mind being a prisoner-of-war in this fashion, Mr Wodehouse?
A. Not a bit. As long as I have a typewriter and plenty of paper and a room to work in, I’m fine. |
| 3. |
“… I’m wondering whether the kind of people and the kind of England I write about, will live after the war — whether England wins or not, I mean… |
| 4. |
Q. Anything you’d like to say, Mr Wodehouse, about the United States?
A. Yes, I’d like to be back there again. You see, I’ve always thought of the United States as sort of my country — lived there almost all the time since 1909 — and I long to get back there once more. |
In fact, Flannery was violently anti-Nazi, despised Wodehouse and had already made up his mind that he was a collaborator and traitor who had bought his freedom by agreeing to broadcast on German radio; and he wrote the script of the whole interview himself, including PGW’s answers. (E.g.: PGW had lived at Le Touquet since 1934 except for twelve months in Hollywood.) So much for journalistic ethics!
(It is worth pointing out that Wodehouse’s fame and wealth made him an ideal target for sensation seekers like Flannery. It made no difference to them that the Wodehouses lost all their belongings, their villa, cars etc. and the very fact that he was interned and suffered terrible hardship, including the death of his mother and daughter.)
Well, soon everyone started jumping on the bandwagon; notable among them was A. A. Milne. Milne and PGW used to be friends, so when he (Milne) condemned PGW it must have been that much worse *. Some authors, like George Orwell, did defend him, on the grounds that he had merely been stupid and naïve rather than malevolent. At any rate, Wodehouse never returned to England. What was worse, the Ministry of War claimed the Official Secrets Act and hinted that there was indeed something damning in the file on PGW but refused to release it. That was the reason that it took so long for PGW’s knighthood – it took till 1975 before his wellwishers (led by, among others, Malcolm Muggeridge) convinced the government that PGW was not a traitor. (I think it was around 1980 that an MP, Iain Sproat, finally got the MI5 dossier opened and it was like Al Capone’s vault – nothing there.) He was in poor health by the time he was awarded the knighthood, and couldn’t travel to England to receive the honour (the Queen Mother asked if she couldn’t go to New York to knight him!); he died a couple of months later.
As for how Wodehouse felt about the Nazis, he was not a political man, but I think it is telling that one of the foremost villains in the canon, Roderick Spode, is modelled after Oswald Moseley, the fascist. He got back at Duff Cooper too – once when Gussie Fink-Nottle is copped (for wading in the Trafalgar Square fountain looking for newts — after being “encouraged” to do so by Catsmeat Pirbright), he gives his name as “Alfred Duff Cooper”.
Many years after all this, PGW met Cassandra Wilson and they got along famously. When someone (I forget who) was writing a strong piece on the villainy, PGW begged him to go easy on Cassandra because “he is a good sort of chap, and he loves cats.”
|
aunque esto suponga perderos las mavarillas que vienen después, 
Hace poco más de una semana se ha publicado en Google Videos una entrevista que le hizo la BBC a Richard P. Feynman en 1981, titulada “El placer de descubrir”. En ella comienza relatando cómo la ciencia le permite apreciar más tipos de belleza al contemplar una flor de los que es capaz de deleitar un artista, pues al reflexionar sobre la forma y el color de la flor se puede admirar cómo ha evolucionado, cómo los insectos detectan los colores y por tanto, de alguna forma, la belleza. Nos cuenta por qué no se debe enseñar álgebra a los niños como un conjunto de reglas que si se aplican tal como se enseñan llevan a obtener la solución, aun sin saber realmente lo que están haciendo,…
. Y de repente lo ví…, Don Camilo… sería posible… que ese Don Camilo, fuera el mismo que el de las pelis…, pues sí, era… en casa habia dos libros, años después, cuando mi tío volvió de Barcelona, se encontró que con que se habían quedado allí algunas cosas… entre ellas varios libros… ahora están muy destrozados y en espera de encuadernación nueva 
, pero se han dejado leer, creo que solo me falta uno o dos de la serie… son uno de mis objetivos en la ferias de libro antiguo o en la Cuesta Moyano.
te lo suplico
Carlos Giménez (Madrid, 1941) es probablemente el autor más importante de la historieta española de las últimas tres décadas.
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extranjero dijo
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Kristian
aojnauj dijo
Buen trabajo