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It was one of those parties where you cough twice before you speak and then decide not to say it after all.

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
Cough
Parties
Twice
Decide
Party
Speak

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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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Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.
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The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.
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Psmith is the only thing in my literary career which was handed to me on a plate with watercress round it, thus enabling me to avoid the blood, sweat and tears inseparable from an author's life.
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Warm-hearted! I should think he has to wear asbestos vests!
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Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
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But everything is relative, Bertie... You, for instance, are my relative, and I am your relative.
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Routine is the death to heroism.
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One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room.
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She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season
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Everything in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal or fattening.
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It was a morning when all nature shouted Fore! The breeze, as it blew gently up from the valley, seemed to bring a message of hope and cheer, whispering of chip shots holed and brassies landing squarely on the meat. The fairway, as yet unscarred by the irons of a hundred dubs, smiled greenly up at the azure sky.
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[I'm] as broke as the ten commandments.
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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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I suppose he must have taken about a nine or something in hats. Shows what a rotten thing it is to let your brain develop too much.
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What ho! I said. What ho! said Motty. What ho! What ho! What ho! What ho! What ho! After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.
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Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty.
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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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A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.
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the supply of the milk of human kindness was short by several gallons
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