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A lesser moustache, under the impact of that quick, agonised expulsion of breath, would have worked loose at the roots.
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
Impact
Roots
Expulsion
Worked
Moustache
Would
Lesser
Loose
Quick
Breath
Breaths
More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.
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[He] saw that a peculiar expression had come into his nephew's face an expression a little like that of a young hindu fakir who having settled himself on his first bed of spikes is beginning to wish that he had chosen one of the easier religions.
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But everything is relative, Bertie... You, for instance, are my relative, and I am your relative.
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I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat.
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To persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling.
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It is the glorious uncertainty of golf that makes it the game it is.
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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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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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A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.
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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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It's curious how, when you're in love, you yearn to go about doing acts of kindness to everybody.
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Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
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There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
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I suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.
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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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The spine, and I do not attempt to conceal the fact, had become soluble, in the last degree.
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Now, I'm a mixer. I can't help it. It's my nature. I like men. I like the taste of their boots, the smell of their legs, and the sound of their voices. It may be weak of me, but a man has only to speak to me, and a sort of thrill goes down my spine and sets my tail wagging.
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However devoutly a girl may worship the man of her choice, there always comes a time when she feels an irresistible urge to haul off and let him have it in the neck.
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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 started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
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