Christmas is at our throats again.
I can’t sing, but I know how to, which is quite different.
I’m an enormously talented man, and there’s no use pretending that I’m not...
There isn’t a particle of you that I don’t know, remember, and want.
He must have been an incredibly good shot.
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun; The Japanese don’t care to, the Chinese wouldn’t dare to; Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one, But Englishmen detest a siesta.
Marriage is the aftermath of love.
I also avoid green vegetables. They’re grossly overrated.
Wit is like caviar – it should be served in small portions and not spread about like marmalade.
The theatre should be treated with respect. The theatre is a wonderful place, a house of strange enchantment, a temple of illusion. What it most emphatically is not and never will be is a scruffy, ill-lit, fumed-oak drill hall serving as a temporary soap box for political propaganda.
Criticism and Bolshevism have one thing in common. They both seek to pull down that which they could never build.
Conceit is an outward manifestation of inferiority.
Star quality: I don’t know what it is, but I’ve got it.
Never trust a man with short legs. His brains are too near his bottom.
I’m over-educated in the things I shouldn’t have known at all.
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun.
My life really has been one long extravaganza.
Never mind, dear, we’re all made the same, though some more than others.
Just say the lines and don’t trip over the furniture.
People are wrong when they say opera is not what it used to be. It is what it used to be. That is what’s wrong with it.
Let’s drink to the spirit of gallantry and courage that made a strange Heaven out of unbelievable Hell, and let’s drink to the hope that one day this country of ours, which we love so much, will find dignity and greatness and peace again.