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It is not mere technical skill that makes a man a golfer, it is the golfing soul.
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
Mere
Skills
Makes
Soul
Golfer
Men
Golfing
Golfers
Technical
Skill
More quotes by P. G. Wodehouse
When you have been just told that the girl you love is definitely betrothed to another, you begin to understand how Anarchists must feel when the bomb goes off too soon.
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In all crises of human affairs there are two broad courses open to a man. He can stay where he is or he can go elsewhere.
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Everything in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal or fattening.
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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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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 was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
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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 can detach myself from the world. If there is a better world to detach oneself from than the one functioning at the moment I have yet to hear of it.
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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 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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Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.
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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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If he had a mind, there was something on it.
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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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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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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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As a dancer, I out-Fred the nimblest Astaire.
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It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.
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It's not that I don't trust you, Dunstable, it's simply that I don't trust you.
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What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
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