P. G. Wodehouse Quotes
Routine is the death to heroism.
Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.
I always advise people never to give advice.
It may be Nature's provision for maintaining the balance of the species, sir.
The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.
Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.
Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.
There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.
And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need.
Everything in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal or fattening.
He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.
The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.
A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.
It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.
Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, "So, you're back from Moscow, eh?
Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious.
As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people.
At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies.
The more I see of women, the more I think there ought to be a law. Something has got to be done about this sex, or the whole fabric of Society will collapse, and then what silly asses we shall all look.
A man's subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.
You would be miserable if you had to go through life with a human doormat with 'Welcome' written on him. You want some one made of sterner stuff. You want, as it were, a sparring-partner, some one with whom you can quarrel happily with the certain knowledge that he will not curl up in a ball for you to kick, but will be there with the return wallop.
