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.
What you want, my lad, and what you’re going to get are two very different things.
Lady Glossip: Mr. Wooster, how would you support a wife? Bertie Wooster: Well, I suppose it depends on who’s wife it was, a little gentle pressure beneath the elbow while crossing a busy street usually fits the bill.
He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers – the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.
It is true of course, that I have a will of iron, but it can be switched off if the circumstances seem to demand it.
Like so many substantial citizens of America, he had married young and kept on marrying, springing from blonde to blonde like the chamois of the Alps leaping from crag to crag.
Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.
The ideas of debtor and creditor as to what constitutes a good time never coincide.
I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.
I can detach myself from the world. If there is a better world to detach oneself from than the one functioning at the moment I have yet to hear of it.
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.
Love is a delicate plant that needs constant tending and nurturing, and this cannot be done by snorting at the adored object like a gas explosion and calling her friends lice.
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.
When you’re alone you don’t do much laughing.
It was one of those parties where you cough twice before you speak and then decide not to say it after all.