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That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely.
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
Long
Life
Misunderstandings
Rash
Misunderstanding
Succession
Acts
Absolutely
More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
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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Slice him where you like, a hellhound is always a hellhound.
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Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French.
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I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.
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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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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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I may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the place thinking things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be poignant, man, be poignant!
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Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, So, you're back from Moscow, eh?
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She could not have gazed at him with a more rapturous intensity if she had been a small child and he a saucer of ice cream.
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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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Just another proof, of course, of what I often say - it takes all sorts to make a world.
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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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Routine is the death to heroism.
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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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The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.
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While not exactly disgruntled, he was far from feeling gruntled. He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
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I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
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Chumps always make the best husbands. All the unhappy marriages come from the husbands having brains.
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I expect I shall feel better after tea.
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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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