The act of copulation is like that of picking the nose. It’s all right to be doing it yourself but it is a singularly unattractive spectacle for the onlooker.
Unless one was going to become a doctor, a lawyer, a scientist, an engineer or some other kind of professional person, I saw little point in wasting three or four years at Oxford or Cambridge, and I still hold this view.
Occasionally one comes across parents who take the opposite line, who show no interest at all in their children, and these of course are far worse than the doting ones.
When Bruce Bogtrotter had eaten his way through half of the entire enormous cake, he paused for just a couple of seconds and took several deep breaths.
No-one got rich being honest, the customers have to be diddled.
Now look at me,” Mrs Wormwood said. “Then look at you. You chose books. I chose looks.
Matilda said nothing. She simply sat there admiring the wonderful effect of her own handiwork. Mr Wormwood’s fine crop of black hair was now a dirty silver, the colour this time of a tightrope-walker’s tights that had not been washed for the entire circus season.
Never in a pig’s whistle!’ cried the BFG.
She believed she could so she did.
I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s none of my business what you do. The trouble is, I’m a writer, and most writers are terrible nosey parkers.
It is very difficult to phone people in China, Mr. President,” said the Postmaster General. “The country’s so full of Wings and Wongs, every time you wing you get the wong number.
Puffin is over seventy years old.
Truth is more important than modesty.
It was a very beautiful thing, this Golden Ticket, having been made, so it seemed, from a sheet of pure gold hammered out almost to the thinness of paper. On one side of it, printed by some clever method in jet-black letters, was the invitation itself – from Mr. Wonka.
I always thought that a veruca was a sort of wart that you got on the sole of your foot!
I is sometimes hearing faraway music coming from the stars in the sky.’ A.
Everyone is born. But not everyone is born the same. One way or another though, every human being is unique, for better or worse.
Never in a month of Mondays.
There’s three of them in nightshirts! Two old women and one.
They also talked about themselves, each one saying how beautiful she thought she was. Aunt Sponge had a long-handled mirror on her lap, and she kept picking it up and gazing at her own hideous face.