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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.
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
Love
Expression
Like
Thousand
Sockets
Loved
Tomato
Eyes
Devout
Taken
Tomatoes
Face
Bricks
Faces
Rolling
Eye
Colour
More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
I expect I shall feel better after tea.
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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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I never was interested in politics. I'm quite unable to work up any kind of belligerent feeling. Just as I'm about to feel belligerent about some country I meet a decent sort of chap. We go out together and lose any fighting thoughts or feelings.
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There are three things in the world that he held in the smallest esteem - slugs, poets and caddies with hiccups.
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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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A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.
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But everything is relative, Bertie... You, for instance, are my relative, and I am your relative.
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It is fatal to let any dog know that he is funny, for he immediately loses his head and starts hamming it up.
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...with each new book of mine I have always the feeling that this time I have picked a lemon in the garden of literature.
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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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There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
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Birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
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I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
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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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She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say 'when.'
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His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
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Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
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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 always strive, when I can, to spread sweetness and light. There have been several complaints about it.
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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.
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