He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.
It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.
A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn’t been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so I chose them.
Everything in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal or fattening.
One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.
Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse.
The test of a great golfer is his ability to recover from a bad start.
Routine is the death to heroism.
Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to speak French.
The Duke of Dunstable had one-way pockets. He would walk ten miles in the snow to chisel an orphan out of tuppence.
An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away.
My motto is ‘Love and let love’ – with the one stipulation that people who love in glass-houses should breathe on the windows.
Always get to the dialogue as soon as possible. I always feel the thing to go for is speed. Nothing puts the reader off more than a big slab of prose at the start.
If you could call the thing a horse. If it hadn’t shown a flash of speed in the straight, it would have got mixed up with the next race.
It’s curious how, when you’re in love, you yearn to go about doing acts of kindness to everybody.
There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
If it were not for quotations, conversations between gentlemen would consist of an endless series of ’what-ho!’s.
Never put anything on paper, my boy, and never trust a man with a small black moustache.
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.
One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room.