Quotes from Dorothy L. Sayers

May I express the hope that the present union may happily exemplify that which we find in a first-class port—strength of body fortified by a first-class spirit and mellowing through many years to a noble maturity. My lord and my lady—your very good health!

honestly--then dishonestly.

I wanted it all to be wonderful for you.' She waited for him to find his own answer to this, which he did with disarming swiftness. 'That's vanity, I suppose. Take pen and ink and write it down. His lordship is in the enjoyment of very low spirits, owing to his inexplicable inability to bend Providence to his own designs.

Think of it—all ours, to do as we like with, for as Harold Skimpole so rightly observes, £60 saved is £60 gained, and I'd reckoned on spending it all.

With tobacco and literature one could face out any situation, provided, of course, that the book was not written in an unknown tongue.

Did you want to be a missionary in your youth? I did. I think most kids do some time or another, which is odd, seein´ how unsatisfactory most of us turn out.

It's a curious thing, but people cannot resist anonymous letters. It's like free sample offers. They appeal to all one's lower instincts.

Joyce has freed us from the superstition of syntax, agreed the curly man.

Ah! I have never regretted Paradise Lost since I discovered that it contained no eggs-and-bacon.

Harriet agreed that intellectual women should marry and reproduce their kind; but she pointed out the English husband had something to say in the matter and that, very often, he did not care for an intellectual wife.

I think,' said Bredon, who was accustomed to his father's meaningless outbursts of speech, 'she's silly.' 'So do I; but don't say I said so.' 'And rude.' 'And rude. I, on the other hand, am silly, but seldom rude. Your mother is neither rude nor silly.' 'Which am I?' 'You are an egotistical extravert of the most irrepressible type.

Any fool can tell a lie, and any fool can believe it; but the right method is to tell the truth in such a way that the intelligent reader is seduced into telling the lie for himself.

Ah, well, as the old pagan said of the Gospels, after all, it was a long time ago, and we'll hope it wasn't true.

and to know, by his ironical eyes, that he perfectly well understood the reason of her unusual meekness.

Yet no woman had ever so stirred his blood; she had only to look or speak to make the very bones shake in his body.

And it's so pretty and secluded, went on Mrs. Digby, with these glorious rhododendrons. Look how pretty they are, all sprayed with the water--like fairy jewels--and the rustic seat against those dark cypresses at the back. Really Italian. And the scent of the lilac is so marvellous! Mr. Spiller knew that the cypresses were, in fact, yews, but he did not correct her. A little ignorance was becoming in a woman.

Together with this outrage we may take the mutilation of the novel called The Search at the exact point where the author upholds, or appears for the moment to uphold, the doctrine that loyalty to the abstract truth must override all personal considerations;

There are many difficulties inherent in a teleological view of creation," said Parker placidly.

Within, a cheerful bustle in the bar announced the near arrival of opening time. Eight ducks crossed the road in Indian file. A cat sprang up upon the bench, stretched herself, tucked her hind legs under her and coiled her tail tightly round them as though to prevent them from accidentally working loose. A groom passed, riding a tall bay horse and leading a chestnut with a hogged mane; a spaniel followed them, running ridiculously, with one ear flopped inside-out over his foolish head.

You would have to abandon the jig-saw kind of story and write a book about human beings for a change.' 'I'm afraid to try that, Peter. It might go too near the bone.' 'It might be the wisest thing you could do.' 'Write it out and get rid of it?' 'Yes.' 'I'll think about that. It would hurt like hell.' 'What would that matter, if it made a good book?

Duke's son, cook's son, son of a hundred kings – people will stand there for hours on end, with their ear-drums splitting – why? Simply for the pleasure of being idle while other people work.

Young people today seem to be positively pickled in gin.

his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification.

You had decided to take the action, whatever it was."   "Yes."   "Yes. It involved perhaps a period of inaction."   "Of comparative inaction—yes."   "Of suspense, shall we say?"   "Yes—of suspense, certainly."   "Possibly