I may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the place thinking things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be poignant, man, be poignant!
Birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
Comedy is the kindly contemplation of the incongruous.
Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.
I shuddered from stem to stern, as stout barks do when buffeted by the waves.
Slice him where you like, a hellhound is always a hellhound.
No novelists any good except me. Sovietski -- yah! Nastikoff -- bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me.
I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
A man who has spent most of his adult life trying out a series of patent medicines is always an optimist.
When it comes to letting the world in on the secrets of his heart, he has about as much shrinking reticence as a steam calliope.
I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.
Jeeves, you really are a specific dream-rabbit." "Thank you, miss. I am glad to have given satisfaction.
I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.
When Cynthia smiles, said young Bingo, the skies are blue; the world takes on a roseate hue; birds in the garden trill and sing, and Joy is king of everything, when Cynthia smiles. He coughed, changing gears. When Cynthia frowns - What the devil are you talking about?I'm reading you my poem. The one I wrote to Cynthia last night. I'll go on, shall I?No!No?No. I haven't had my tea.
Say what you will, there is something fine about our old aristocracy. I'll bet Trotsky couldn't hit a moving secretary with an egg on a dark night.
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.
In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.
He enjoys that perfect peace, that peace beyond all understanding, which comes to its maximum only to the man who has given up golf.
It is not mere technical skill that makes a man a golfer, it is the golfing soul.
Golf is the Great Mystery.
I pity the shrimp that matches wits with you Jeeves
She's a sort of human vampire-bat
Psmith is the only thing in my literary career which was handed to me on a plate with watercress round it, thus enabling me to avoid the blood, sweat and tears inseparable from an author's life.
There's a sort of wooly headed duckiness about you. If I wasn't so crazy about Marmaduke, I could really marry you Bertie.
Other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like foundering derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable club. His breast stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he did the crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt that that was the only possible method of progression.
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