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He looks much more like a lobster than most lobsters do.
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
Lobsters
Lobster
Looks
Much
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More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
Jeeves, you really are a specific dream-rabbit. Thank you, miss. I am glad to have given satisfaction.
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Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.
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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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I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
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In his normal state he would not strike a lamb. I’ve known him to do it’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Not strike lambs
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Employers are like horses — they require management.
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You're one of those guys who can make a party just by leaving it. It's a great gift.
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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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She gave me another of those long keen looks, and I could see that she was again asking herself if her favourite nephew wasn't steeped to the tonsils in the juice of the grape.
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His eyes were rolling in their sockets, and his face had taken on the colour and expression of a devout tomato. I could see he loved like a thousand bricks.
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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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It is not mere technical skill that makes a man a golfer, it is the golfing soul.
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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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It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn't.
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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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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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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 always strive, when I can, to spread sweetness and light. There have been several complaints about it.
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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 don't know if you know it, J.B., but you're the sort of fellow who causes hundreds to fall under suspicion when he's found stabbed in his library with a paper-knife of Oriental design.
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