Jeeves is giving up twittering because of the uproar/controversy/negative response to some comments he made recently. I have no comment on his comments, other than that they seem pretty foolish, but when it struck me when I read them that they sounded awfully familiar. Indeed, the sentiment, spoken by a dissipated poet making an ass of himself at a dinner party, appears almost verbatim in a novel he wrote some fifteen years ago, The Hippopotamus. Art presages life.
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