Quote

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.

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
Cannot
Gas
Done
Delicate
Snorting
Needs
Object
Lice
Love
Plant
Tending
Like
Calling
Adored
Constant
Explosion
Objects
Explosions
Friends
Nurturing

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I love writing. I never feel really comfortable unless I am either actually writing or have a story going. I could not stop writing.
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Jeeves, you really are a specific dream-rabbit. Thank you, miss. I am glad to have given satisfaction.
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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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One of the drawbacks to life is that it contains moments when one is compelled to tell the truth.
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-'What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?' There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter
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Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.
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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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It was loud in spots and less loud in other spots, and it had that quality which I have noticed in all violin solos of seeming to last much longer than it actually did.
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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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I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don't know what I did before that. Just loafed I suppose.
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So always look for the silver lining And try to find the sunny side of life.
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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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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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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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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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It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.
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He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner-gong due any moment.
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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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