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This was not Aunt Dahlia, my good and kindly aunt, but my Aunt Agatha, the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth.
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
Broken
Dahlias
Good
Agatha
Kindly
Aunt
Rats
Kills
Bottles
Dahlia
Teeth
Chews
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In a series of events, all of which had been a bit thick, this, in his opinion, achieved the maximum of thickness.
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Flowers are happy things.
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What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
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You can't be a successful Dictator and design women's underclothing.
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Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty.
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There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
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Well, you certainly are the most wonderfully woolly baa-lamb that ever stepped.
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A lesser moustache, under the impact of that quick, agonised expulsion of breath, would have worked loose at the roots.
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When it comes to letting the world in on the secrets of his heart, he has about as much shrinking reticence as a steam calliope.
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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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As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people.
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Routine is the death to heroism.
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He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.
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Well, there it is. That's Jeeves. Where others merely smite the brow and clutch the hair, he acts. Napoleon was the same.
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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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It was one of those cases where you approve the broad, general principle of an idea but can't help being in a bit of a twitter at the prospect of putting it into practical effect. I explained this to Jeeves, and he said much the same thing had bothered Hamlet.
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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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Many a man may look respectable, and yet be able to hide at will behind a spiral staircase.
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If he had a mind, there was something on it.
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A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.
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