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Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
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
Claims
Sacred
Friendship
Limits
Wells
Well
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Employers are like horses — they require management.
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Judges, as a class, display, in the matter of arranging alimony, that reckless generosity which is found only in men who are giving away someone else's cash.
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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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There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.
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This is peculiarly an age in which each of us may, if he do but search diligently, find the literature suited to his mental powers.
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Just another proof, of course, of what I often say - it takes all sorts to make a world.
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Sudden success in golf is like the sudden acquisition of wealth. It is apt to unsettle and deteriorate the character.
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In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a man. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere.
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Well, you certainly are the most wonderfully woolly baa-lamb that ever stepped.
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To say that New York came up to its advance billing would be the baldest of understatements. Being there was like being in heaven without going to all the bother and expense of dying.
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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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If men's minds were like dominoes, surely his would be the double blank.
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Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, So, you're back from Moscow, eh?
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Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.
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Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.
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A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.
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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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The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.
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She gave me another of those long keen looks, and I could see that she was again asking herself if her favourite nephew wasn't steeped to the tonsils in the juice of the grape.
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Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.
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