"P. G. Wodehouse"の名言

As a rule, from what I've observed, the American Captain of Industry doesn't do anything out of business hours. When he has put the cat out and locked up the office for the night, he just relapses into a state of coma from which he emerges only to start being a Captain of Industry again.

I'm not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare who says that it's always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.

I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don’t remember what I did before that. Just loafed, I suppose.

When a girl uses six derogatory adjectives in her attempt to paint the portrait of the loved one, it means something. One may indicate a merely temporary tiff. Six is big stuff.

-'What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?' There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter

I wonder if you have noticed a rather rummy thing about it -- viz. that it is everywhere. You can't get away from it. Love, I mean. Wherever you go, there it is, buzzing along in every class of life. Quite remarkable.

Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.

He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'

Has anybody ever seen a dramatic critic in the daytime? Of course not. They come out after dark, up to no good.

Sudden success in golf is like the sudden acquisition of wealth. It is apt to unsettle and deteriorate the character.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

Golf... is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well.

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.

Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.

Flowers are happy things.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

Golf, like measles, should be caught young.

She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.

Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.