Quotes About Author

Personally I couldn't manage it. I don't think I ever saw a child who made me feel less sentimental. He was one of those round, bulging kids.

How's the weather, Jeeves?' 'Exceptionally clement, sir.

It is futile to advance the argument that glasses are unromantic. They are not. I know, because I wear them myself, and I am a singularly romantic figure, whether in my rimless, my Oxford gold-bordered, or the plain gent's spectacles which I wear in the privacy of my study.

Jeeves—my man, you know—is really a most extraordinary chap. So capable. Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do without him.

What, in your opinion, will the harvest be? One finds it difficult to hazard a conjecture, sir. You mean imagination boggles? Yes, sir. I inspected my imagination. He was right. It boggled.

six of the juiciest from a cane of the type that biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, as the fellow said.

there was only one thing to be done. I went straight back to my room, dug out the cummerbund, and draped it round the old tum. I turned round and Jeeves shied like a startled mustang.

She did drive me in the Park the other day. I thought it rather a hopeful

I paused, partly for breath, and partly because I felt I had said enough. I stood there, waiting for her reply, wishing I had a throat lozenge to suck.

I was endeavouring to adjust the faculties, which were in urgent need of a bit of first-aid treatment.

In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove.' 'So

It went automatically to a heavy-weight mother with beetling eyebrows who looked as if she had just come from doing a spot of knitting at the foot of the guillotine.

He lit another cigar, and began to brood over the folly of mankind.

of the afternoon Mr. Fitz-Wattle----

P.G. Wodehouse

It is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till a thing has happened before writing about it.

Come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice; but what is a pleasant voice if the soul be vile?

I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

Nothing remains except that which was written with blood to be listened to by blood

I am a Communist and my painting is Communist painting.

Writing is a failure. Writing is not only useless, it's spoiled paper.

life is a time when you get pleasure until somebody get your ass. and one of the ways to prolong pleasure is to not chop up time with syllables.

Do you write novels? I said. Novels, Lord no, she said. I can't even stay married.