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There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
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
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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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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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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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Luck is a goddess not to be coerced and forcibly wooed by those who seek her favours. From such masterful spirits she turns away. But it happens sometimes that, if we put our hand in hers with the humble trust of a little child, she will have pity on us, and not fail us in our hour of need.
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That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely.
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I'm bound to say that New York's a topping place to be exiled in. Everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine.
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They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke.
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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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As a dancer, I out-Fred the nimblest Astaire.
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My motto is 'Love and let love' - with the one stipulation that people who love in glass-houses should breathe on the windows.
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It is not mere technical skill that makes a man a golfer, it is the golfing soul.
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I shuddered from stem to stern, as stout barks do when buffeted by the waves.
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She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.
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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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She looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.
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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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When you have been just told that the girl you love is definitely betrothed to another, you begin to understand how Anarchists must feel when the bomb goes off too soon.
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She's one of those soppy girls, riddled from head to foot with whimsy. She holds the view that the stars are God's daisy chain, that rabbits are gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen, and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born, which, as we know, is not the case. She's a drooper.
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