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Birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
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
Society
Stiff
Bottle
Bottles
Birds
Bored
Bird
Except
Cold
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It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.
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It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.
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No novelists any good except me. Sovietski -- yah! Nastikoff -- bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me.
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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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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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I laughed derisively. For goodness' sake, don't start gargling now. This is serious. I was laughing. Oh, were you? Well, I'm glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit. Derisively, I explained.
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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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They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke.
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There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?' The mood will pass, sir.
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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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Routine is the death to heroism.
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In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a man. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere.
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I suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.
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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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The exquisite code of politeness of the Woosters prevented me clipping her one on the ear-hole, but I would have given a shilling to be able to do it. There seemed to me something deliberately fat-headed in the way she persisted in missing the gist.
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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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Jeeves, you really are a specific dream-rabbit. Thank you, miss. I am glad to have given satisfaction.
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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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