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They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke.
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
Strokes
Excellence
Golf
Mere
Spirit
Real
Golfers
Thing
Stroke
Mechanical
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It was one of those parties where you cough twice before you speak and then decide not to say it after all.
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Comedy is the kindly contemplation of the incongruous.
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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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To persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling.
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You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower.
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That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely.
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Success comes to a writer as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.
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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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This is peculiarly an age in which each of us may, if he do but search diligently, find the literature suited to his mental powers.
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He groaned slightly and winced like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch.
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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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Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
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It was a morning when all nature shouted Fore! The breeze, as it blew gently up from the valley, seemed to bring a message of hope and cheer, whispering of chip shots holed and brassies landing squarely on the meat. The fairway, as yet unscarred by the irons of a hundred dubs, smiled greenly up at the azure sky.
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An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away.
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It isn't often that Aunt Dahlia lets her angry passions rise, but when she does, strong men climb trees and pull them up after them.
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Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know?
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[He] saw that a peculiar expression had come into his nephew's face an expression a little like that of a young hindu fakir who having settled himself on his first bed of spikes is beginning to wish that he had chosen one of the easier religions.
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There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.
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