Saint Martha is so wild, like she was Jesus’ host in Bethany, along with her sister Mary (as in, Mary Magdalene), then Lazarus’ (that Lazarus, who is her brother) resurrection happens, then she’s usually hanging around with her sister in a “passionate-emotional” dynamic (Martha is the aggressive sister, energetic, proactive, while Mary is the calm sister, patient, subdued), but both are very devout to J-man, and they were supposed to represent the different forms of devotion to G-sus: The gung-ho, passionate, assertive Martha, and the calm, impassioned Mary. Later, after Jesus’ death, Martha leaves Judea (that’d be around the year 48 AD), went all the way to France, and Martha, who had grown wise throughout the Bible, managed her and her siblings’ (Mary, Lazarus, and herself) stuff, eventually selling everything and giving the money to the poor after Jesus’ ascension (as per the Golden Legend tells).
So there she was, a real happy traveling saint, wandering about, when one day, she happens to arrive to this town in France named Tarascon. It was swirling in negativity and fear, for the terrible dragon Tarrasque was terrorizing it. Saint Martha was having None Of This Shit, so she rolled up her sleeves, grabbed her cross and her flask, and went to the woods to have a talk with this abomination (HONESTLY, the Tarrasque was half beast, half fish, bigger than a horse, long and very sharp fangs, the head of a lion, the tail of a snake, and no doubt a huge body-image problem). Once she found its dwelling in the forest, Martha politely war cried and sprinkled holy water on it, wrapped her sash around its neck, sat on its back to ride it, and tamed the fuck out it.
Saint Martha settled in Tarascon after this, where she continued to live day after day by performing prayers and helping people out with her servant, Saint Marcelle, and eventually she died there of old age, no doubt wearing sick shades and brofisting Marcelle while Tarasque was plowing the field for some farmers.
And you think she was done? NO, SAINT MARTHA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THE DEFINITION OF NOT KICKING ASS 24/7. NOT EVEN DEATH CAN STOP THIS BULLDOZER. A town in Spain, Villajoyosa, holds an annual celebration in honor of Saint Martha, because according to local legend, when Berber pirates came to pillage the small town, Saint “Fuckhouse” Martha came to the rescue by causing a flood on the coast, wiping out the pirate fleet. This happened in the 1500s, which I absolutely interpret as Saint Martha opening her eyes in a frenzy in her crypt, over a shitting thousand years after she died, thrusting her meaty fist out of the concrete tomb, grabbing her cross, muttering “fucking pirates” very violently, POWER SPRINTING all the way from France to that Spanish town, kicking the water, causing a small tsunami, undoing the pirates, and then running back to her tomb to continue being dead.
What I am trying to say here is that Saint Martha is the knees of the bee.
And scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the sitting-room, and scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found that these proceeded from Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be the Devil.
A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed as Mephistopheles.
Odio vedere come il nostro rapporto è cambiato. Odio vedere come ti comporti ora con me. Odio vedere che tutto è cambiato. Ma non do la colpa a te, la do ad entrambi ma a me, soprattutto. E mi odio, per questo. Prenditi il tempo che vuoi, io sono qui e posso aspettare. Ma torna ti prego. Ho ancora bisogno di vederti, di parlarti, di sentirti, di baciarti, di vederti ridere, di ascoltarti e di averti. Ho ancora bisogno di passare del tempo con te. Per favore, dammene la possibilità. Non dimenticarti di me. Io ti aspetto, torna da me. Resta con me ancora un po’, non chiedo altro. Senza te è tutto così vuoto, è tutto così spento, così confuso, così assurdo e io non riesco più a sopportare tutto questo silenzio. Torna, torna ti prego. Non ce la faccio più a star male, a crollare, a piangere. Non ne posso più di soffrire e di star così. Ho bisogno di tempi migliori, penso di meritarmelo, almeno un po’.
distruggo sempre tutto, eppure so di poter amare per davvero, se solo ne avessi il coraggio…Amore mio ti prego ritorna da me, mi manchi tantissimo, perdonami …ho solo bisogno di te, per qualche istante…
‘No, thanks. I must be off in a minute. I just came round to ask Jeeves how he thought I looked. How do you think I look, Bertie?’
Well, the answer to that, of course, was ‘perfectly foul’. But we Woosters are men of tact and have a nice sense of the obligations of a host. We do not tell old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an offence to the eyesight. I evaded the question.
They had great fun at the Union [Oxford’s debating society] last week. Birkenhead [F. E. Smith] came to speak. The first thing that worried him was the private business in which two gentlemen got up and discussed the library list—additions to the library of the Union being a subject which naturally comes up in private business. On this occasion the merits of Psmith Journalist by P. G. Wodehouse, That Ass Psmith by the same author, and The Wreck of the Birkenhead were hotly canvassed. The noble lord was understood to make some observations to those around him in which the word “schoolboys” figured.
Then the debate began. The first speaker produced the good old ancient Wadham story of how Smith and Simon had decided what parties they were to follow in their political careers by the toss of a coin the night before they took schools. You will hardly believe me when I tell you that Smith jumped up: “baseless fabrication”—“silly, stale story”—“hoped that even the home of lost causes had abandoned that chestnut, etc. etc.”—and allowed himself to be sidetracked and leg pulled to such an extent that he never reached his real subject at all. It seems to me impossible that a man of his experience could fall to such frivolous tactics: unless we accept the accompanying story that he was drunk at the time, or the even subtler explanation that he was not…
C. S. Lewis, letter to his father from Magdalen College, 29? November 1927
Stumbled across this on Google. Several items of note:
Into the 1920s Psmith was apparently still a recognizable pop culture reference.
These students were familiar enough with the character to attempt tactics reminiscent of the ones at Bickersdyke’s political rally in Psmith in the City.
The collection of Lewis’s letters that this is quoted in has an index, which lists, under Wodehouse’s name, all his works referred to in the letters…including, with apparently utter seriousness, That Ass Psmith (which, if anyone is wondering, is not a real book, as much as I’d like a lost Psmith story to exist).