Three Men in a Boat (Giunti classics)

Three Men in a Boat

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Harris never "weeps, he knows not why. View all 14 comments. Three young gentlemen, and I use that word, very loosely , are desperate to get away from the fast pace tensions, of every day, 19th Century, London life the horror! And go someplace else, they should have stayed put, indeed. The men need a long rest, they're quite run down, but from what though? The boys, don't actually work much, these hypochondriacs, I mean sick men, just want to have a little fun. Jerome , thinks he has every illness, in the book, and he's read it too, except housem Three young gentlemen, and I use that word, very loosely , are desperate to get away from the fast pace tensions, of every day, 19th Century, London life the horror!

Jerome , thinks he has every illness, in the book, and he's read it too, except housemaid's knee. The other members of this desperate, oddball trio, are J. The liveliest of the group, he has four legs, is terribly short, with a small tail, angers easily, is always ready for a fight. Guarding everyone, this brave young man not technically , he's really a fox-terrier.

After a considerable discussion, a leisurely boat trip of two weeks , up the Thames River, sounds delightful, only smart Montmorency , objects. But is outvoted 3 to 1, being a team player, the irritated dog, sorry Montmorency, decides to join the others. They will row and tow and go, nothing can be a better vacation? Packing and unpacking, causes a little difficulty, J, the best at this kind of exercise. And proud of his talents, does the honors. While Harris and George, lazily look on, comfortably sitting on their big posteriors, supervising, both sleepily say.

They are hard working men no doubt The two proclaim, numerous times Poor J, someone is invariably losing an article, so he opens the bag and searches, again and again, the humongous thing. I'm afraid the boys got carries away, and putting just a little too much in At last the trio Slowly rowing up, their boat struggling against the dangerous current, disaster looms everywhere, but now, a miracle happens, muscles soon develop, they become, strong, hardy, brave gentlemen , getting fresh air, and healthy again Two row, one steers Montmorency must be the captain , guess which job, the boys like the most.

Harris has a slight accident, a tumble in the vessel, legs up in the air , yet being such a great sailor, stays on board. The picturesque view, of the ever changing stream, is worth all the trouble Small, lovely villages, that seem quaint, from another era, still , I wouldn't drink the water there. Roughing it on shore, sleeping in their boat, with a cozy cover over them, just as good as a bed, camping out, how grand And exceptional entertainment, too, a friend's Banjo playing The singing, by all, rather splendid On the river, in the boat, as the cold rains come pouring down, drenched together, dodging the big steamers and receiving many curses, almost killed, yes, the fun of it.

Luckily, Montmorency is there too A gentle, charming, satire on the English way of life that is no more View all 33 comments. 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.

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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 quick Three Men in a Pastiche: 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.

Three Men in a Boat - Jerome K. Jerome - Google Книги

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.

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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.

Aug 04, Florencia rated it really liked it Shelves: Right from the beginning, it is a hilarious thing to read. This book was written in , and it is still too funny. According to what I read, at first, it was going to be a travel guide, but that got lost among the humorous anecdotes that took over the whole book. I thank you, Jerome, for that. So, three men with a dog started talking about how ill they were, almost like a contest on who was in the worst shape ever. And then, Jerome said his liver was out of order.

Without visiting any d Okay.

Without visiting any doctor, he affirmed that his liver was out of order. How did he know that? Because he read a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed all the symptoms. And that single thing was my first hypochondriacal is that a word? I mean, don't most people do that? They feel unwell so they start looking for information, and suddenly they are writing a will because they KNOW it is their last week on earth. Then, if they have any time left, they visit the doctor.

So, Jerome read that circular, and on another opportunity, went to the British Museum with the single purpose of reading about diseases now, we have Wikipedia Anyway, every paragraph is filled with amusing lines; not stupid funny , but witty funny. The thoughts of these hypochondriacs are written in such a way that you are entertained all the way through.

Who never experienced "a general disinclination to work of any kind"? Poor boy, he was not lazy, it was his liver!

So, after all this chatting and feeling sorry for themselves, they arrived to the conclusion that all those maladies were caused by overwork. That is why they decided to take a boating holiday. While describing the trip, the author shared a lot of hilarious anecdotes. And I mean, a lot. The one thing I didn't like that much is the fact that this story seems to be told by a weird creature I named "Seinlet": It is an abrupt change and I was a bit lost.

Otherwise, it can be confusing. At least, it was for me. I came to typhoid fever - read the symptoms - discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it - wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance - found, as I expected, that I had that too, - began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically - read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight.

Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee. I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? My favorite parts are the funny ones, of course. Oh my, how I laughed. Jerome, you are a new safe place for me.

This is a solid 4.

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I read this book many months ago I'm trying to catch up with my reviews. View all 47 comments. What a quaint little book! I had no idea this existed. But I'm definitely glad I could rectify that now. The story is that of three friends, elderly gentlemen, who decide to journey up the Thames in a little boat together with the dog one of them owns. The preparations for the trip are already very entertaining, but the trip itself is no less so.

Apart from them actually travelling for a bit, we are treated to various stops along the way I looked a few places up on a map and was delighted to see What a quaint little book! Apart from them actually travelling for a bit, we are treated to various stops along the way I looked a few places up on a map and was delighted to see there are indeed so many interesting places along the river.

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During the voyage as well as the stops, there are some reminiscences, childhood memories as well as later encounters, from all three. All while they are stumbling about. You might have guessed that not only do they encounter a bit of bad luck, their own helplessness and the fact that they don't actually know what they are doing isn't helping either. The characters the dog definitely being one of them are very quirky.

It's basically the story of three old er grumpy men travelling together with a dog, having some mishaps on the way. The way it was told was light and quite modern so the age of the book actually surprises. Seeing society through the eyes of the three friends and the dog was very funny and the light way the story is told in that is nonetheless full of dry humour makes it clear why this book was an instant success back when it was first published. Once again, I've chosen the audioversion and am glad for it because although I do not have the version narrated by Hugh Laurie, it was wonderful to have this story brought to life with the proper British accent.

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Humour in literature is often not taken as seriously as it deserves. Nevertheless, there are a few seriously funny books that remain great for all time. Three Men in a Boat is one of these. Ostensibly the tale of three city clerks on a boating trip, an account that sometimes masquerades, against its will, as a travel guide, Three Men in a Boat hovers somewhere between a shaggy-dog story and episodes of late-Victorian farce.

What's it all about? Jerome K Jerome would probably say his masterpiece was "about one hundred and fifty pages", but I would argue that Three Men in a Boat is about the cameraderie of youth, the absurdity of existence, camping holidays, playing truant, comic songs, and the sweet memories of lost time. You could also read it as an unconscious elegy for imperial Britain.

Did I omit to say that it also features a dog named Montmorency? In short, like all the finest comic writing, it's about everything and nothing.

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Jerome K Jerome is more or less forgotten now. He was a jobbing freelance literary journalist who had just got married and needed to provide for his wife and family. Encouraged by his new wife, Georgina, Jerome intended his account of a boating holiday to be a popular travel guide for a booming market. In late-Victorian England there was a vogue for recreational boating on the Thames between Kingston and Oxford. This was the golden age of the Henley regatta.

Rowing boats, steam launches, even the occasional gondola: Here was an audience for a new river guide. In fact, Jerome's descriptions of Hampton Court, Marlow and Medmenham are all that survive from the original plan for a travel book. But something funny happened on the way to publication, perhaps because it was first serialised in a magazine.

Jerome's discursive comic voice took over. The river journey he makes with his friends George and Harris and Montmorency becomes the narrative line on which he hangs a sequence of comic anecdotes loosely associated with the journey upriver. Jerome's themes are airily inconsequential and supremely English — boats, fishing, the weather, the atrocities of English food and the vicissitudes of suburban life — perfectly pitched in a light comic prose whose influence can be detected later in the work of, among many, PG Wodehouse , James Thurber, and Nick Hornby.

My favourite Jerome set piece is the episode with the tinned pineapple.

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