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I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.

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
Dressings
Dressing
Rushing
Flew
Mighty
Shoved
Wind
Downstairs
Like
Gown
Gowns

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One of the Georges - I forget which - once said that a certain number of hours´ sleep each night - I cannot recall at the moment how many - made a man something which for the time being has slipped my memory.
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I suppose half the time Shakespeare just shoved down anything that came into his head.
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I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.
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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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Birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
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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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It is the glorious uncertainty of golf that makes it the game it is.
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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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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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But what is the love life of newts, if you boil it right down? Didn't you tell me once that they just waggled their tails at one another in the mating season?''Quite correct.' I shrugged my shoulders. 'Well all right, if they like it. But it's not my idea of molten passion.
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Comedy is the kindly contemplation of the incongruous.
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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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...there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when I am no more, I intend to have inscribed on my tombstone. It was this: He was a man who acted from the best motives. There is one born every minute.
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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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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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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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He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.
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I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat.
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I'm not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare who says that it's always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.
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