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The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.
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
Wine
Heart
Thinking
Sunlight
Contentment
Glass
Passed
Glasses
Storm
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Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.
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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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you ever have that feeling when you step down onto a footstep that isn't there?
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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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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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There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.
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It is not mere technical skill that makes a man a golfer, it is the golfing soul.
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I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
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A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn't been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so I chose them.
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There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.
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You can't be a successful Dictator and design women's underclothing.
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Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.
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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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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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He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner-gong due any moment.
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A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.
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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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Confidence, of course is an admirable asset to a golfer, but it should be an unspoken confidence. It is perilous to put it into speech. The gods of golf lie in wait to chasten the presumptious.
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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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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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