Famous Quotes by P.G. Wodehouse

“The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.”

“She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.”

“It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.”

“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.”

“In a series of events, all of which had been a bit thick, this, in his opinion, achieved the maximum of thickness.”

“The true philosopher is a man who says All right, and goes to sleep in his armchair.”

It was one of those still evenings you get in the summer, when you can hear a snail clear its throat a mile away.

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.

That’s the way to get on in the world – by grabbing your opportunities. Why, what’s Big Ben but a wrist-watch that saw its chance and made good?

Flowers are happy things.

There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, ‘Do trousers matter?’

There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.

I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.

I marmaladed a slice of toast with something of a flourish, and I don’t suppose I have ever come much closer to saying ‘Tra-la-la’ as I did the lathering, for I was feeling in mid-season form this morning.

The voice of love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.

I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies.

He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

I hadn’t the heart to touch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself.

The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked like he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say ‘When.’

Honoria, you see, is one of those robust, dynamic girls with the muscles of a welter-weight and a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging over a tin bridge. A beastly thing to have to face over the breakfast table. Brainy, moreover.

She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season.

Intoxicated? The word did not express it by a mile. He was oiled, boiled, fried, plastered, whiffled, sozzled, and blotto.

The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.

It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.

“Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, So, you're back from Moscow, eh?”