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She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say 'when.'
P. G. Wodehouse
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P. G. Wodehouse
Age: 93 †
Born: 1881
Born: January 1
Died: 1975
Died: January 1
Humorist
Librettist
Lyricist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Songwriter
Writer
Guildford
Surrey
UK
Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
P.G. Wodehouse
Looked
Clothes
Moral
Women
Poured
Diets
Manners
Forgotten
More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
They pointed out that the friendship between the two artists had always been a byword or whatever you called it. A well-read Egg summed it up by saying that they were like Thingummy and what's-his-name.
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I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.
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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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Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
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I may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the place thinking things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be poignant, man, be poignant!
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There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
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I can detach myself from the world. If there is a better world to detach oneself from than the one functioning at the moment I have yet to hear of it.
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Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.
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It isn't often that Aunt Dahlia lets her angry passions rise, but when she does, strong men climb trees and pull them up after them.
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She looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.
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It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.
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The only thing that prevented a father's love from faltering was the fact that there was in his possession a photograph of himself at the same early age, in which he, too, looked like a homicidal fried egg.
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He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.
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I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.
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An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away.
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Success comes to a writer as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.
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I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
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While not exactly disgruntled, he was far from feeling gruntled. He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
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This was not Aunt Dahlia, my good and kindly aunt, but my Aunt Agatha, the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth.
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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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