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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.
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
Asking
Gave
Steeped
Wasn
Grape
Another
Nephew
Looks
Keen
Long
Grapes
Juice
Favourite
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I should think it extremely improbable that anyone ever wrote for money. Naturally, when he has written something, he wants to get as much for it as he can, but that is a very different thing from writing for money.
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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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She looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.
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I expect I shall feel better after tea.
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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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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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-'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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Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.
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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.
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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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One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.
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Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know?
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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 suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.
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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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Cats, as a class, have never completely got over the snootiness caused by the fact that in ancient Egypt they were worshipped as gods. This makes them prone to set themselves up as critics and censors of the frail and erring human beings whose lot they share.
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He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.
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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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Employers are like horses — they require management.
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A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.
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