P. G. Wodehouse Quotes
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It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.
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Aunt Agatha, who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire next to the skin.
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Before my eyes he wilted like a wet sock.
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She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
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This done, he felt a little-not much, but a little-better. Before, he would have gladly murdered Beach and James and danced on their graves. Now, he would have been satisfied with straight murder.
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'Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary,' murmured Psmith. (Earlier usage of the precise words 'Elementary, my dear Watson' has been found in the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.)
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’Oh, yes, he thinks a lot of you. I remember his very words. 'Mr Wooster, miss' he said 'is, perhaps, mentally somewhat negligible but he has a heart of gold’
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He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'
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He had been looking like a dead fish. He now looked like a deader fish, one of last year's, cast up on some lonely beach and left there at the mercy of the wind and tides.
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Oofy, thinking of the tenner he had given Freddie, writhed like an electric fan.
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At five minutes to eleven on the morning named he was at the station, a false beard and spectacles shielding his identity from the public eye. If you had asked him he would have said that he was a Scotch business man. As a matter of fact, he looked far more like a motor-car coming through a haystack.
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I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
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You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower.
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She’s all for not letting the sun go down without having started something calculated to stagger humanity.
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He resembled a minor prophet who had been hit behind the ear with a stuffed eel-skin.
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When a girl uses six derogatory adjectives in her attempt to paint the portrait of the loved one, it means something. One may indicate a merely temporary tiff. Six is big stuff.
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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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Love is a delicate plant that needs constant tending and nurturing, and this cannot be done by snorting at the adored object like a gas explosion and calling her friends lice.
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Routine is the death to heroism.
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He was not a man who prattled readily, especially in a foreign tongue. He gave the impression that each word was excavated from his interior by some up-to-date process of mining.
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She fitted into my biggest armchair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing armchairs tight about the hips that season.
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We exchanged a meaning glance. Or, rather, two meaning glances, I giving him one and he giving me the other.
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And as he, too, seemed disinclined for chit-chat, we stood for some moments like a couple of Trappist monks who have run into each other at the dog races.
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I turned to Aunt Agatha, whose demeanour was now rather like that of one who, picking daisies on the railway, has just caught the down express in the small of the back.