I just picked up White's _Medieval Technology and Social Change_ and found to my delight that I've forgotten it well enough to read it again. Now if only I could forget Wodehouse.
I say that when a man is tired of Wodehouse, he is tired of life. Why, even just in JOY IN THE MORNING one already finds exquisite delights in such reckless profusion as to salve even the most Byronic soul. Age cannot wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety.