P. G. Wodehouse Quotes

Bingo swayed like a jelly in a high wind.

[of Spode] He was, as I had already been able to perceive, a breath-taking cove. About seven feet in height, and swathed in a plaid ulster which made him look about six feet across, he caught the eye and arrested it. It was as if Nature had intended to make a gorilla and had changed its mind at the last moment.

He then gave a hideous laugh and added that, if anybody was interested in his plans, he was going to join the Foreign Legion, that cohort of the damned in which broken men may toil and die and dying, forget. ‘Beau Widgeon?’ said the Egg, impressed. ‘What ho!’

... "someone tried to assasinate Lenin with a revolver. That is our (Russia's) great national sport, you see."

I consider that of all the dashed silly, drivelling ideas I ever heard in my puff this is the most blithering and futile. It won't work. Not a chance.

... Vladimir Brusiloff proceeded to sum up. "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."

It isn't often that Aunt Dahlia, lets her angry passions rise, but when she does, strong men climb trees and pull them up after them.

I can't stand Paris. I hate the place. Full of people talking French, which is a thing I bar. It always seems to me so affected.

His was a life which lacked, perhaps, the sublimer emotions which raised Man to the level of the gods, but it was undeniably an extremely happy one. He never experienced the thrill of ambition fulfilled, but, on the other hand, he never knew the agony of ambition frustrated. His name, when he died, would not live for ever in England's annals; he was spared the pain of worrying about this by the fact that he had no desire to live for ever in England's annals. He was possibly as nearly contented a human being can be in this century of alarms and excursions.

His aspect was that of one who has been looking for the leak in a gas pipe with a lighted candle.

There are some things a chappie's mind absolutely refuses to picture, and Aunt Julia singing 'Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay' is one of them.

Bradbury Fisher shuddered from head to foot, and his legs wobbled like asparagus stalks.

I don’t suppose she would recognize a deep, beautiful thought if you handed it to her on a skewer with tartare sauce.

Besides, isn't there something in the book of rules about a man may not marry his cousin? Or am I thinking of grandmothers?

As plainly as if it had been the top line on the oculist’s chart I could see what the future held for Bertram.