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He enjoys that perfect peace, that peace beyond all understanding, which comes to its maximum only to the man who has given up golf.

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
Comes
Enjoys
Given
Maximum
Men
Golf
Beyond
Understanding
Perfect
Peace
Enjoy

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A little bit added to what you've already got gives you a little bit more.
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A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.
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Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times but there are higher, nobler things than love.
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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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The brains of members of the Press departments of motion-picture studios resemble soup at a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
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you ever have that feeling when you step down onto a footstep that isn't there?
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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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Sudden success in golf is like the sudden acquisition of wealth. It is apt to unsettle and deteriorate the character.
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...it has been well said that it is precisely these moments when we are feeling that ours is the world and everything that's in it that Fate selects for sneaking up on us with the rock in the stocking.
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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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Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.
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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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One of the drawbacks to life is that it contains moments when one is compelled to tell the truth.
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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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She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say 'when.'
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Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.
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One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.
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It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.
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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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Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.
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