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Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.

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
Muddling
Motto
Sober
Keep

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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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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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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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Cats, as a class, have never completely got over the snootiness caused by the fact that in ancient Egypt they were worshipped as gods. This makes them prone to set themselves up as critics and censors of the frail and erring human beings whose lot they share.
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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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Golf, like the measles, should be caught young, for, if postponed to riper years, the results may be serious.
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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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Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know?
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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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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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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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Routine is the death to heroism.
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She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season
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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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There's a sort of wooly headed duckiness about you. If I wasn't so crazy about Marmaduke, I could really marry you Bertie.
P. G. Wodehouse
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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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It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.
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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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The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.
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It is not the being paid money in advance that jars the sensitive artist: it is the having to work.
P. G. Wodehouse