Not as funny as I expected from the reviews and the fact that the book has supposedly never been out of print since its first publication in 1889. Still, it's an amusing travelogue and slice of Victorian life in England. I'm glad I wasn't on that boat trip up the Thames!

i have a friend named Albert. once, long ago, i was matched with him as a volunteer to provide him 'peer support'. our relationship as volunteer and client continued semi-happily for many years, until i started working for the agency that oversees these volunteer matches. when that match officially ended, we remained friends - although it is important to point out that the relationship continued within the same format: mainly me listening to him. Albert tells many uproarious anecdotes. he's a funny guy - a senior citizen with many tales to tell, a bitchy queen with many hilariously scathing remarks at his disposal, an opera lover and antique-collector who has educated me on these two topics (ones in which i had virtually no understanding). Albert knows how to TALK. he calls me almost daily with incredibly long-winded but often very wry stories, and during my visits it is story after story after story. i don't begrudge him any of this in the slightest - he's a lonely old man and i'm glad to support him. i love him. but gosh, at times it can get a wee bit wearying.

Three Men in a Boat is like listening to Albert, except instead of an elderly gay man complaining about aches & pains and full of digressive but amusing anecdotes about life or whatever, the narrator is a young straight man complaining about aches & pains and full of digressive but amusing anecdotes about life or whatever. there are a lot of hilarious moments. there are even some moments that are moving or even full of beauty (well, two of them, prior to my page 100 stopping-point). but golly, it gets tiring. there is so little point to it all! just semi-amusing tale after tale, on and on and on, with virtually no movement. so very static. for example, over seven pages of 'amusing anecdotes' about tow-lines! really? Jerome K. Jerome, were you getting paid by the word?

so i am doing what i could never possibly imagine doing to my dear Albert: i am walking out of the room, i am hanging up, i am ending this one-sided conversation. Jerome K. Jerome seems like a charming, sweet-natured man, but he is not my friend and i refuse to continue to provide empathetic active listening to a nice guy who is also, at times, such a bore. Jerome - sad to say - you're no Albert. his stories are more entertaining and he has a whole lifetime under his belt. that reminds me, i should call him back now.

still, the writing in Three Men IS dryly amusing, i'll give it that.

post-script: after reading miriam's comment below, i hustled back to the book to find this passage. it is about a page and a half, starting at the bottom of page 159. the three young men come across the body of a woman floating in the river and are later told her sad and moving story. it is a surprising change of tone for such a light-hearted, comedic novel of anecdotes. well worth seeking out, even if you are the kind of impatient reader, like myself, who gave up on the book.

Three Men in a Pastiche: To Say Nothing of the Boat

Three tourists - A spicy meal - The effects of a typhoon - Picasso's masterpiece - Random thoughts on helicopters - The joys of being on land

Three young men were waiting at the docks to be picked up by a ferry boat. The first of these men is Ted, a man widely praised for his lust for action. It is in his hands, his feet, his nose and other such things that the essence of his being lies. He is said to be the only man who is able to act more quickly than he thinks, regardless of the fact that he does the latter so swiftly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all. This ability is most surprising in combination with his stubbornness to survive the whole business that is life with such bravado. He's a decentralised affair that would send many great communists in a frenzy, with his left hand doing a complicated thing with a phone while talking to a woman while his right eye is looking at his left foot as it kicks someone in the behind, with no apparent logic threading these disparate actions together into what one hopes can be called a "harmonious life" at the end of it all.
The second man whose behind was just briefly mentioned is Earl. Earl is of a different nature altogether, so while his brother is widely praised for action, he is widely praised for nothing whatsoever. That is in part because kind hearts receive no praise in these cold and vicious times and because in a world where actions speak louder than words, he's got nothing to speak for him. He thinks before he acts, but he does the former so slowly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all, thereby allowing observers to give credence to the notion that he is his brother's brother after all.
The third man who was accompanying these brothers is what one could call the happy medium, though he himself prefers to be referred to as the Golden Mean, since it has got a far less mundane ring to it. An astute observer with a charm that has enthralled entire ballrooms, a companionable polymath with the kind of razor-sharp wit that enlivens many conversations, a man that couples thinking to action like internet dating sites couple lovers to psychopaths, he is a man that is mostly known for his humility despite his many other talents. That third and quite frankly ravishingly handsome man is, as you may have surmised, your humble narrator.

As we were sitting at the dock waiting for the ferry boat that would take us from one paradisiac island to the next, a pang of hunger got the better of me. A small food stand that was intelligently placed in the vicinity of the waiting space caught my attention and I sped towards it as rapidly as a crocodile would chase Louis Vuitton. Earl shouted some warnings as I went, relating to the poor quality of the overpriced food and the questionable hygiene and other such trifles that are exceedingly insignificant to a hungry man. I ordered some noodles with chicken and upon being asked if I wanted it spicy I requested it to be the Golden Mean of Spicy, where small tears of joy well up as your throat emits a gentle warmth and your tongue tingles in delight. Despite this elaborate explanation the vendor had misconstrued my meaning and served me with what once were the contents of the now dormant Mount Vesuvius. Appearances would have it that this devious man had scooped up the insides of this legendary volcano and decided to pour them on my chicken noodles in great quantities. I would have uttered an objection to his recipe, had it not been that my voice had made way for a column of blazing hellfire that only the steady stream of my salty tears could hope to put out. Miraculously I averted slipping into a coma and made my way back to my friends, just in time to get on the boat. As I regained the first traces of the power of thought, I ruminated on those tales of firebreathing dragons and thought it very logical that they always seemed in such bad spirits and further considered it to their benefit that they hadn't been expected to actually exist.

It was a big ferry, and a fast one, if one could trust the pictures that adorned its flanks. On them the ferry was flying over the whiteheaded waves across a sky blurry with birds, clouds and rays of light. It was a white streak across a blue canvas that would make the most celebrated action painter, if ever there were such a thing, envious. As we settled down in the seats I mentioned to my friends that I have been known to get seasick, both as a warning as well as a supplication for comfort. I was met with a boatload of encouraging remarks. Ted pointed to the sunny sky and said that if the weather would be any calmer it would be mistaken for Earl. Earl pointed to the tiny waves and said that the only thing that could stir up a sea so calm would be Ted's feet after a cup of coffee. Thus it was with an easy mind that I heard the engines start up and we left the safety of the docks.

Not five minutes had passed since we left the island when the sea changed its mind. Even though it was leisurely bathing in the sun only moments before, it now seemed to get itself into quite a state, as if suddenly recalling an important deadline or being roused up by a hysterical pregnant woman during an otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon. As the waves got higher and the bumps got rougher, my visage must have gone through fifty shades of green. It had just settled on pistachio green with touches of grey and yellow when Ted and Earl gave me some concerned looks. Ted, who was sitting next to me, seemed mostly concerned for his trousers being in the line of fire in case my disconcerting complexion was but the forerunner of more imposing symptoms, while Earl himself didn't seem to possess the iron stomach he thought he did. Ted decided to get up on the roof of the ferry and get some fresh air, while Earl settled for a trip to the head. For some reason boats don't have kitchens or toilets but consist of "galleys" and "heads" instead. I have since come to believe these terms find their ancestors in the words "gallows" and "beheadings" and other such references to painful deaths, considering the entire construction makes one consider public executions as a blissful means of escape from that infernal vessel. To add insult to injury the seafaring folk devised the system of "nautical miles", giving false hope with regards to the distance one needs to traverse before being once again graced with land under one's feet.

I would have gotten up as well and followed my companions outside, if only to throw myself into the sea under a lonely cry of despair, had not the adage of "you are what you eat" proved itself to be true as my legs slowly turned into the limp noodles I had eaten only moments before. A voice on the intercom informed the passengers of a typhoon that had been raging many miles away, a natural disaster of which we were now feeling the comparably tiny side effects. I had heard of the effect a small flutter of a butterfly's wings could have over great distances, so it came as no surprise that a typhoon should bring about catastrophic consequences on my feeble constitution. In response to the storm that had raged over fisherman's villages and quaint coastlines far away, ruining shelters and holidays alike, my stomach churned in empathy and cried for a prompt evacuation of its own residents. I've always thought of myself as a kind man with a good heart, but it appears that my stomach is my most sympathetic organ. It made me wonder if all that connected the wise and noble prophets of our great religions was that they all had a weak stomach in the face of misery, rather than a heart of gold.

One of the seamen with a keen eye for discoloured faces had offered me a black, plastic bag that reeked of chemicals. Before I could even consider the idea of wrapping it over my head and letting the lack of oxygen put me out of my wretchedness, I had filled it up with my lunch, sadly noting that it had lost none of its spicy spunk before its return voyage. The fire was back and with a vengeance, as this time it seemed to have found the way through my nose as well. I cried silent and bitter sobs, my eyes red with burning tears, my cheeks grey, my forehead yellow and my chin dripping with green drops hovering over a black bag. I fancy I must have looked like my portrait if I had chosen to commission it to Pablo Picasso.

In the meanwhile Earl had ventured outside and apparently had had the same idea to simply jump into the sea and hope that Heaven was a real place. He had lost his nerve at the last moment and held to the railing while being splashed by the cold water and attacked by an evil wind. Trembling, he welcomed this agony as it made him forget the reality of Hell that was his own body. His belly seemed to host the devil himself and all his minions, intent on entering this world post-haste. During the first convulsions Earl somehow still had the clarity of mind and the good fortune to find a vacant toilet bowl and lay next to it as long as necessary. He locked himself in and didn't mind the outrage of all the people, equally sick, rapping on the door. If this torment would last much longer he would offer himself up as a sacrifice to the murderous mass and do it all with a contented smile.

On the upper deck Ted was feeling a bit queasy. He resolved to look at the horizon and fell asleep shortly after.

I was working on filling up my fifth bag and had already gone over all possible solutions. Jumping off the boat was no longer an option and I could find no way to the Gates of Heaven with the limited tools at my disposal. No matter how hard I wished for a gun, the only thing that would be delivered was another plastic bag. Even though the evacuation of my stomach had been a resounding success, with not a single entity still present in that godforsaken place, the safety mechanisms seemed to prefer to make absolutely certain no noodle would be left behind. I think I have left my very soul in that last bag. Given the absence, thanks to lazy scientists all over the world, of immediate teleportation, my only hope was a helicopter, swooping down from the sky like an angel and taking me to golden shores. Who would have thought that such a ludicrous contraption would be the main flicker of hope during my darkest times? It looks like a curiously constructed metallic fish with a sad flower on its head, whirring through the skies in search of a place where it doesn't look ridiculous. Finding that such a place does not exist, some good souls resolved to paint big white circles with an "H" in the middle to give the mechanical monstrosity at least some semblance of a home. And yet it was this silly thing that I longed for in my last and most difficult moments on that diabolical boat on an equally satanic sea.

After what according to my estimations must have been twenty-six eternities, we finally reached the harbour and were assisted to come to land. Once there it was with surprising ease that I found the will to live again, which was followed up by a healthy appetite and the desire to share my story with my companions. Earl had easily made his way through the angry mob, for they had helpfully decided to collapse outside of the toilet in a last effort to get the better of the motions of the sea. We looked into each other's eyes and found therein the understanding that we had been in hell, and survived. Ted merely agreed by saying that he found the trip, on the whole, rather uncomfortable, and that it would probably be best if we took a plane for the return trip. However aggravating his equanimity, both Earl and I hugged him in a moment of joyous relief and didn't let go until he punched us both in the ear. Oh, we were so happy, happy to live, happy to be on land, happy to note that regardless of everything that ferry had put us through, it did deliver on its promise to take us to Paradise.

Inno al lavoro (guardato da lontano)

"La vista, da sveglio, di un uomo addormentato nel suo letto ha l'effetto di farmi impazzire.
Mi sembra così sconvolgente vedere le ore più preziose della vita - gli inestimabili momenti che mai più torneranno - sprecati in un sonno bestiale. Ecco lì George nella sua odiosa neghittosità che getta via il dono impagabile del tempo."

"Quando Harris viene invitato a qualche ricevimento, e gli chiedono di cantare, ha l'abitudine di rispondere:" be', sono capace soltanto di cantare una canzone comica.
E lo dice con un tono in cui è sottinteso che almeno una volta nella vita andrebbe sentito, se si vuole morire senza rimpianti."

“Sii eloquente, profondo e tenero; guarda, con occhio limpido, nella natura e nella vita; apri le candide ali del trepido pensiero, e librati, spirito divino, sul mondo turbinoso al disotto, su per i lunghi sentieri delle stelle fiammeggianti fino alle porte dell’eternità.”

Tre ragazzi, più un cane su cui è meglio tacere, alle prese con una travagliata gita in barca sul Tamigi.
L'aspetto che più sorprende è il tempo passato, estremamente galantuomo verso un'opera che ha mantenuto brillantezza nella sua semplicità.
Lo sgangherato trio, ottimamente tratteggiato con una peculiare tendenza all'ozio e nobilitato da slanci pseudofilosofici di bassa lega, diverte e colpisce nel segno a più riprese; quello che funziona meno è la continuità narrativa, difetto che emerge impietoso in quelle fastidiose transizioni fra i passaggi di connotazione storica - all'inizio l'opera fu pensata come guida turistica - e la vicenda narrata.
Momenti cult: l'aneddoto su Zio Podger e il racconto della canzonetta comica di Harris.

Embora acredite piamente na máxima "não voltes a um lugar onde foste feliz", a realidade é que dou por mim, demasiadas vezes, a querer revisitar lugares, eventos e livros que me trouxeram felicidade e, claro, a coisa corre sempre mal!
Três Homens Num Barco foi uma das primeiras compras que fiz numa feira do livro (de bairro) e representou, à data, uma transição entre a leitura que se herda - de casa de avós e pais - e a leitura que se adquire por moto próprio. Ora, este ano, por excesso de trabalho e falta de vontade, tenho andado meio que perdida na minha biblioteca - comprando sempre novos livros, mas perdendo a vontade de os ler quase no momento em que passam da porta da entrada; e neste bonito contexto, volta e meia repesco os livros que me acompanharam em momentos especiais na esperança de insuflar novo vigor a esta fase tão nefasta. No entanto, acho que ainda nenhuma tentativa de releitura funcionou como eu esperava: algumas fizeram-me perceber o quanto amadureci enquanto leitora, outras mostraram-me o quão mal determinados títulos envelheceram; outras ainda fizeram com que repensasse a minha visão do mundo literário... Enfim.
Jerome K. Jerome é um daqueles nomes que normalmente sei de cabeça quando me pedem uma sugestão cómica. E isso não mudou! Aliás, este livro abre com grande impacto, só a leitura do primeiro capítulo dá dores de barriga:

"Cheguei à febre tifóide - li os sintomas, descobri que sofria de febre tifóide, já devia sofrer há meses sem o saber - perguntei a mim próprio de que mais sofreria; cheguei à Dança de São Vito - descobri, como já previa, que também padecia desta doença comecei a interessar-me pelo meu caso e, determinado a passar-me ao crivo dos pés à cabeça, pus-me a ler tudo por ordem alfabética: li tudo o que havia sobre angina, soube que sofria daquela maleita e que a fase aguda começaria mais ou menos dali a quinze dias. Fiquei aliviado ao saber que sofria apenas de uma forma atenuada da Doença de Bright e que, no que a essa matéria diz respeito, podia viver por muitos anos. Cólera tinha, e com complicações graves; difteria era algo com que já devia ter nascido. Conscienciosamente percorri as vinte e seis letras e, conforme pude concluir, a única doença de que eu não padecia era a artrose da lavadeira."

E o livro segue por aí fora com um conjunto de peripécias protagonizadas por este personagem e outros que tais (outros dois, na verdade, já para não falar do cão). São três amigos - todos hipocondríacos, preguiçosos e citadinos - que decidem partir em viagem de barco por esse Tamisa fora. Só pode correr bem, não é?
Pelo caminho tudo lhes acontece: palavra que noutro contexto este livro parecia mais um thriller do que uma comédia. Não sei como chegam os três (os quatro) a casa inteiros, mas isso também não importa muito pois o importante é a viagem. E é aqui que as coisas começam a ficar filosóficas.
Jerome K. Jerome gozou de enorme popularidade com este livro (não tanto com o subsequente Três homens de bicicleta) não só pela comicidade das situações e da sua escrita, mas também porque lhe aplicou uma dose muito saudável de filosofia:

"Deita fora os trastes, homem! Deixa leve o teu barco da vida, carregado apenas com aquilo de que precisas - um lar acolhedor e prazeres simples, um ou dois amigos que mereçam tal nome, alguém que ames e alguém que te ame, um gato, um cão e um ou dois cachimbos, comida e roupa em quantidade suficiente e bebida em quantidade mais do que suficiente: porque a sede é uma coisa perigosa."

Numa narrativa metafórica (por esta não se espera quando se inicia a leitura), o desapego, o mote horaciano "carpe diem", são quase, eles próprios, personagens centrais - estão sempre presentes. Assim, creio, se explica que, mesmo que o nosso gosto amadureça, mesmo que já não nos identifiquemos tanto com determinados moldes (um livro vitoriano só pinta um retrato saudável dos homens ricos), mesmo que até não sejamos grandes fãs de literatura humorística, encontremos sempre neste livro um certo conforto - esta obra viajou pelo mundo; atravessou duas guerras mundiais, chegando a ser encontrada na mala de um soldado morto em combate; vive há mais de cem anos e até neste cantinho da Europa é reeditada de forma regular. Em alguma coisa Jerome K. Jerome acertou.

"Que bem se sente uma pessoa quando está saciada, que satisfeitos ficamos connosco e com o mundo! Dizem a pessoas que já tiveram essa experiência, que uma consciência pura dá muita alegria e contentamento; mas a estômago cheio serve perfeitamente o mesmo objectivo, e é mais barato e mais fácil de conseguir."

Lá está, não gosto de voltar aos sítios onde fui feliz e tenho de perder essa mania porque agora esta review saiu furada. Não quis dar a entender que Três Homens Num Barco é um mau livro - sobretudo para leituras públicas deve ser dos melhores! - mas eu fui muito mais feliz nas suas páginas quando o li pela primeira vez...
É engraçado que Fernando Pessoa, quando fala de Os Cadernos de Pickwick (outro grande, grande, livro!) diz que tem imensa pena de o não poder ler pela primeira vez. E é exatamente isso! Uns olhos limpos e um coração expectante são atributos essenciais para apreciar a leitura (em minha opinião), mas, como de costume, tenho a mania de ignorar as regras básicas que mantenho para mim própria e agora uma review que podia ser um hino saiu um elogio fúnebre...
Felizmente, Jerome K. Jerome e o seu livro Três Homens Num Barco não precisam de mim para absolutamente nada - a sua fama perdurará no tempo e outros leitores, mais cautos do que eu, farão reviews impressionantes, e um monte de gente continuará a rir destas aventuras de três fulanos vitorianos citadinos apertados num barco (juntamente com o rafeiro) por esse Tamisa adentro. E no fim do dia só isso importa.

First off, the whole time I was reading this book a Monty Python sketch was running through my head. The story reminded me of "The Upperclass Twit of The Year Contest". This may be spoilerish, but you know the saying how many people does it take to change a lightbulb. It this story it was how many people does it take to hang a picture. My was that hilarious.

Also, some of the antidotes about the narrarators dog are side splitters.

Jerome and some pals go rolling on the river.

His account is rambling, yet occasionally very amusing.

My copy seems to be missing the part where they meet the inbred, banjo-playing hillbillies.

While I was reading this 19th century novel about three men on a boat trip, I traced the course of their journey on a map. They started out from Kingston-on-Thames just outside London and rowed up the river all the way to Oxford, stopping at many places on the way. Each time a place name was mentioned, I plotted it on my map, and so, little by little, I began to see that section of the river Thames as a long piece of rope curling itself into many twists and turns as it stretches half-way across England. Here's what my rope river looks like:

n  n

I was fascinated by those twists and turns, and the many lakes and reservoirs that are as if nested in the twists, for all the world like a series of digressions or nested narratives in a larger story. I'm very fond of books with nested narratives. I probably should have a shelf named for such books, I've read so many of them. Books such as Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, The Sot-Weed Factor, Double or Nothing, in all of which the reader finds themselves propelled by various twists and turns through a series of side stories so that the main story can be completely lost from view—until around a bend it suddenly appears and the reader is back on track. I think Jerome K Jerome must have an equal fondness for such nested narratives. His narrator is given to digressions, his mind wandering off frequently as he thinks on the history of the places he and his two companions pass through, or other adventures he's had with the same companions, to say nothing of Montmorency, the dog he's taken along with him on the journey.

Sometimes, the narrator is so preoccupied with remembering some incident or other that he steers the boat right into the riverbank, and then he, his companions and the dog, to say nothing of the reader, are propelled back into the present moment of the narrative with a crash. Such crashes, upheavals, and entanglements happen so often that it's a wonder the characters ever reach Oxford and attempt the return journey back to Kingston-on-Thames, or at least back to a warm and inviting hostelry half-way there, one with a train station leading to London nearby, so that they can avoid any further rain-soaked nights sleeping under the tent they had rigged up on their rowboat. And, incidentally, the book is so full of good advice on how, for example, to put up a tent on a boat, how to boil water on a paraffin stove in the bow, and how to get ropes untangled, while still remaining good friends with your boat companions, that I thought it would make the perfect (if slightly tattered) gift for a couple I know who had requested a book instead of a congratulations card for their recent wedding—which is how I came to reread this book. As I reread it, I marked up all those practical tips for their attention. Here's another one from the early pages:
The first list we made had to be discarded. It was clear that the upper reaches of the Thames would not allow of the navigation of a boat sufficiently large to take the things we had set down as indispensable; so we tore the list up, and looked at one another. George said: ‘You know we are on the wrong track altogether. We must not think of the things we could do with, but only of the things that we can’t do without.’
How about that for good advice! And the narrator also has an interesting take on living with in-laws:
Between Iffley and Oxford is the most difficult bit of the river I know. You want to be born on that bit of water, to understand it. I have been over it a fairish number of times, but I have never been able to get the hang of it. The man who could row a straight course from Oxford to Iffley ought to be able to live comfortably, under one roof, with his wife, his mother-in-law, his eldest sister, and the servant who was in the family when he was a baby. First the current drives you on to the right bank, and then on to the left, then it takes you out into the middle, turns you round three times, and carries you up-stream again, and always ends by trying to smash you up against a college barge.

And the book doubles as a guide to where not to stay if you ever find yourself time-traveling through that part of England:
Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village, old-fashioned, peaceful, and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is rich and beautiful. If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot do better than put up at the ‘Barley Mow’. It is, without exception, I should say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river. It stands on the right of the bridge, quite away from the village. Its low-pitched gables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-book appearance, while inside it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied.
It would not be a good place for the heroine of a modern novel to stay at. The heroine of a modern novel is always ‘divinely tall’, and she is ever ‘drawing herself up to her full height’. At the ‘Barley Mow’ she would bump her head against the ceiling each time she did this. It would also be a bad house for a drunken man to put up at. There are too many surprises in the way of unexpected steps down into this room and up into that; and as for getting upstairs to his bedroom, or ever finding his bed when he got up, either operation would be an utter impossibility to him.

However there's also some advice I made sure to tell the couple to ignore:
The pool under Sandford lasher, just behind the lock, is a very good place to drown yourself in. The undercurrent is terribly strong, and if you once get down into it you are all right. An obelisk marks the spot where two men have already been drowned, while bathing there; and the steps of the obelisk are generally used as a diving-board by young men now who wish to see if the place really is dangerous.

I really think it's the perfect guide for people starting out life together. I mean, you never can tell when you'll find yourself rowing upriver in a small boat in uncertain weather, meeting unforeseen obstacles, and enduring a never-ending series of frustrations of one kind or another. Well, maybe that's taking it too far. But at the very least, the book offers a few sublime reading moments. It seemed to me that the following passage had the rhythm of Longfellow's poetry so I've taken the liberty of breaking up the lines to emphasize the parallel:
The river
– 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 the 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.

Ok, maybe that's too mournful a way to end the review so I'll include the follow-on bit about sunlight:
Sunlight is the life-blood of Nature. Mother Earth looks at us with such dull, soulless eyes, when the sunlight has died away from out of her. It makes us sad to be with her then; she does not seem to know us or to care for us. She is as a widow who has lost the husband she loved, and her children touch her hand, and look up into her eyes, but gain no smile from her.

Perhaps that won't do to finish on either. How about this:
…they must have had very fair notions of the artistic and the beautiful, our great-great-grandfathers. Why, all our art treasures of today are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is any real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The ‘old blue’ that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of today always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimney-pieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd?

Yes, that's a good note to finish on because here we are reading Jerome K Jerome’s rather old-fashioned words in the year '2000 and odd', a year he could only dream of back in 1889, and this tattered old paperback, that I might have thrown out in one of our house moves, may be about to start a new life as a 'prized treasure' on my friends' bookshelf.

Three young men from London in the late 19th century (all of them hypochondriacs) decide to take a two week trip "up the river". They bring with them the one man's dog and only the various things they will need. Or so they claim. The long passage about packing would indicate otherwise.
What follows is a funny story in which a great many things go wrong, many other stories are told, and the dog proves to be the smartest of the bunch.

The anecdotes the men share, always something that happened to a friend or a friend of a friend, are funny. The antics of the three men themselves can be downright hilarious.

If you like the classics and are looking for a quick, amusing read then I would highly recommend this book.

1889 English humour

In the church is a memorial to Mrs. Sarah Hill, who bequeathed £1 annually, to be divided at Easter, between two boys and two girls who “have never been undutiful to their parents; who have never been known to swear or to tell untruths, to steal, or to break windows.” Fancy giving up all that for five shillings a year! It is not worth it.

It is rumoured in the town that once, many years ago, a boy appeared who really never had done these things...and thus won the crown of glory. He was exhibited for three weeks afterwards in the Town Hall, under a glass case.

This famous short comic novel is full of the kind of riffing that modern stand-ups do – say, for instance, the famous Rhod Gilbert routine about his luggage at the airport, rather dry, wry and prone to ridiculous deadpan exaggeration, based almost entirely on the observation that in this life everyone irritates everyone else and friends irritate each other the most.

So, three men and a dog bumble around on the River Thames for a fortnight. There’s no story. Quite often the book becomes an actual travel guide :

Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village, old-fashioned, peaceful, and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is rich and beautiful. If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot do better than put up at the “Barley Mow.” It is, without exception, I should say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river. It stands on the right of the bridge, quite away from the village. Its low-pitched gables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-book appearance

and by the way, the Barley Mow still exists, 130 years later



So far no real surprises, but then, it seems, a switch flicks in the mind of JKJ and he totally forgets he’s writing a funny book and starts coming out with this kind of stuff:

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.

And you are going wait, what’s going on, is this a parody? And then he switches back into the whimsical and jovial as if nothing has happened.

The oddest of these bits is when the three jolly chums are suddenly confronted by a dead body floating downriver, that of a woman suicide, they immediately decide:

She had wandered about the woods by the river’s brink all day, and then, when evening fell and the grey twilight spread its dusky robe upon the waters, she stretched her arms out to the silent river that had known her sorrow and her joy. And the old river had taken her into its gentle arms, and had laid her weary head upon its bosom, and had hushed away the pain….
Goring on the left bank and Streatley on the right are both or either charming places to stay at for a few days. The reaches down to Pangbourne woo one for a sunny sail or for a moonlight row, and the country round about is full of beauty. We had intended to push on to Wallingford that day, but the sweet smiling face of the river here lured us to linger for a while; and so we left our boat at the bridge, and went up into Streatley, and lunched at the “Bull,” much to Montmorency’s satisfaction.

Such a crashing of tonal gears - it's the strangest thing I’ve read in a book for a long time. No idea what JKJ thought he was doing. In the middle of the gentle humour it seems, well, really strange.

But otherwise, whimsical, gentle and loveable.

Grāmatu kluba nepabaigtā Humora mēneša astīte pievārēta.
Acīmredzot Trīs vīrus sāku lasīt ar pārāk augstām ekspektācijām - ģimenes rekomendācijas 30 gadu garumā, citāti ar dzīves gudrībām un smieklīgas grāmatas etalona statuss izdarīja lāča pakalopjumu šim darbam.
Man par pārsteigumu, grāmatas vienīgais sižets bija laivas ceļojums pa Temzu, visu ciematu un slūžu apraksti, un 3 draugu (kretīnu?!) piedzīvojumu ("mednieku/makšķernieku stāstu") aprakti piedevām. Katrā ciematā šķiet ir "Vērsis". Un kāda vēsturiska persona apprecējusies, apglabāta, dzīvojusi, karojusi un ar citām lietām nodarbojusies.
Grāmatas pozitīvais aspekts - 100+ gadus atpakaļ, un cilvēka daba nav mainījusies, "tā mīlu darbu - stundām varu skatīties kā citi strādā", "uzkrāt darbus ir mana kaislība: mans kabinets ir pilns ar iesāktiem darbiem", lasot medicīnisko enciklopēdiju, tu saproti, ka tev ir viss, izņemot ūdens celī, sliktās īpašības, kas citādi miermīlīgiem cilvēkiem, parādās pilnā spožumā, braucot ar laivu upes satiksmē, pilnīgi noteikti ir mūsdienu autobraucēju realitāte un daudzi citi.
Negatīvās lietas - dučiem vien ciematu, 3 grāmatas galvenie varoņi kaut kādi kretīni - ar tādiem draugiem ienaidniekus nemaz nevajag, gleznainie un eksistenciālie dabas un domu plūsmu apraksti mani garlaikoja bez gala.
Mazā plānā grāmatiņa man izraisīja visnotaļ daudz emociju. Kas laikam ir pluss?? Bet visvairāk pozitīvo emociju sajutu, kad tiku līdz vārdam "Beigas".

This isn't really about three men in a boat, it is about Jerome being funny.