P. G. Wodehouse Quotes
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‘Alf Todd,’ said Ukridge, soaring to an impressive burst of imagery, ‘has about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild-cat’s ear with a red-hot needle.’
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Aunt Agatha, who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire next to the skin.
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She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
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Breakfast had been prepared by the kitchen maid, an indifferent performer who had used the scorched earth policy on the bacon again.
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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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'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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Oofy, thinking of the tenner he had given Freddie, writhed like an electric fan.
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I laughed derisively. "For goodness' sake, don't start gargling now. This is serious." "I was laughing." "Oh, were you? Well, I'm glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit." "Derisively," I explained.
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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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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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I shuddered from stem to stern, as stout barks do when buffeted by the waves.
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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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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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I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
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Hugo?’ ‘Millicent?’ ‘Is that you?’ ‘Yes. Is that you?’ ‘Yes.’ Anything in the nature of misunderstanding was cleared away. It was both of them.
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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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She’s all for not letting the sun go down without having started something calculated to stagger humanity.
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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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Routine is the death to heroism.
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Whenever I meet Ukridge’s Aunt Julia I have the same curious illusion of having just committed some particularly unsavoury crime and-what is more-of having done it with swollen hands, enlarged feet, and trousers bagging at the knee on a morning when I had omitted to shave.
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Well, why do you want a political career? Have you ever been in the House of Commons and taken a good square look at the inmates? As weird a gaggle of freaks and sub-humans as was ever collected in one spot.
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There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.