Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.
A golfer needs a loving wife to whom he can describe the day’s play through the long evening.
The only way of really finding out a man’s true character is to play golf with him. In no other walk of life does the cloven hoof so quickly display itself.
He enjoys that perfect peace, that peace beyond all understanding, which comes to its maximum only to the man who has given up golf.
You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower.
There are three things in the world that he held in the smallest esteem – slugs, poets and caddies with hiccups.
Skiing consists of wearing $3,000 worth of clothes and equipment and driving 200 miles in the snow in order to stand around at a bar and drink.
It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.
I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.
They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke.
What is Love compared with holing out before your opponent?
To persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling.
The spine, and I do not attempt to conceal the fact, had become soluble, in the last degree.
His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.
One prefers, of course, on all occasions to be stainless and above reproach, but, failing that, the next best thing is unquestionably to have got rid of the body.
That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely.
As Shakespeare says, if you’re going to do a thing you might as well pop right at it and get it over.
In his normal state he would not strike a lamb. I’ve known him to do it’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Not strike lambs.
I wonder what Tommy Morris would have had to say to all this number 6-iron, number 12-iron, number 28-iron stuff. He probably wouldn’t have said anything, just made one of those strange Scottish noises at the back of his throat like someone gargling.
He looks much more like a lobster than most lobsters do.