P. G. Wodehouse Quotes
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I don’t say I’ve got much of a soul, but, such as it is, I’m perfectly satisfied with the little chap. I don’t want people fooling about with it. ‘Leave it alone,’ I say. ‘Don’t touch it. I like it the way it is.’
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'There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?''‘The mood will pass, sir.’
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...what I feel we ought to do at this juncture is to dash off somewhere where it's quiet and there aren't so many housesdancing the 'Blue Danube' and shove some tea into ourselves. And over the pot and muffins I shall have something veryimportant to say to you.
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You are falling into your old error, Jeeves, of thinking that Gussie is a parrot. Fight against this. I shall add the oz.
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My Aunt Agatha, the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all.
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...his head emerged cautiously, like that of a snail taking a look around after a thunderstorm.
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He enjoys that perfect peace, that peace beyond all understanding, which comes to its maximum only to the man who has given up golf.
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A man who has spent most of his adult life trying out a series of patent medicines is always an optimist.
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She could not have gazed at him with a more rapturous intensity if she had been a small child and he a saucer of ice cream.
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I believe there are two ways of writing novels. One is mine, making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into life and not caring a damn.
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At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies.
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There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air.
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...with each new book of mine I have always the feeling that this time I have picked a lemon in the garden of literature.
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One of the Georges - I forget which - once said that a certain number of hours´ sleep each night - I cannot recall at the moment how many - made a man something which for the time being has slipped my memory.
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Mr Howard Saxby, literary agent, was knitting a sock. He knitted a good deal, he would tell you if you asked him, to keep himself from smoking, adding that he also smoked a good deal to keep himself from knitting.
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I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts about a fellow named Pig-something-a sculptor he would have been, no doubt-who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock for the chap, of course.
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There are three things in the world that he held in the smallest esteem - slugs, poets and caddies with hiccups.
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Henry glanced hastily at the mirror. Yes, he did look rather old. He must have overdone some of the lines on his forehead. He looked something between a youngish centenarian and a nonagenarian who had seen a good deal of trouble.
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I’d always thought her half-baked, but now I think they didn’t even put her in the oven.
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'But why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that.'
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I'm not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare who says that it's always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.
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As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people.
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It is true of course, that I have a will of iron, but it can be switched off if the circumstances seem to demand it.
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Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove.