P. G. Wodehouse Quotes
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Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.
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Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.
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Flowers are happy things.
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I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.
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So was victory turned into defeat, and Billy's jaw became squarer and his eye more full of the light of battle than ever.
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-'What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?' There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter
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It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.
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A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.
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As Shakespeare says, if you're going to do a thing you might as well pop right at it and get it over.
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He uttered a coarse expression which I wouldn't have thought he would have known. It just shows that you can bury yourself in the country and still somehow acquire a vocabulary. No doubt one picks up things from the neighbours - the vicar, the local doctor, the man who brings the milk, and so on.
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I'm bound to say that New York's a topping place to be exiled in. Everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine.
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...I mean to say, when a girl, offered a good man’s heart, laughs like a bursting paper bag and tells him not to be a silly ass, the good man is entitled, I think, to assume that the whole thing is off.
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As plainly as if it had been the top line on the oculist’s chart I could see what the future held for Bertram.
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Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times; but there are higher, nobler things than love.
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While they were content to peck cautiously at the ball, he never spared himself in his efforts to do it a violent injury.
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Besides, isn't there something in the book of rules about a man may not marry his cousin? Or am I thinking of grandmothers?
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It was one of the dullest speeches I ever heard. The Agee woman told us for three quarters of an hour how she came to write her beastly book, when a simple apology was all that was required.
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Though never for an instant faltering in my opinion that Augustus Fink-Nottle was Nature's final word in cloth-headed guffins, I liked the man, wished him well.
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He groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch.
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Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.
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Prismatic is the only word for those frightful tweeds and, oddly enough, the spectacle of them had the effect of steadying my nerves. They gave me the feeling that nothing mattered.
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No novelists any good except me. Sovietski -- yah! Nastikoff -- bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me.
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A young man with dark circles under his eyes was propping himself up against a penny-in-the-slot machine. An undertaker, passing at that moment, would have looked at this young man sharply, scenting business. So would a buzzard.
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We do not tell old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an offence to the eyesight.