The Rules of War
The rules, solemnly observed by sovereign nations, which make it illegal to hit below the toes. ~Leo Rosten
An optimist may see a light where there is none, but why must the pessimist always run to blow it out? ~Michel de Saint-Pierre
“She got her looks from her father. He’s a plastic surgeon.”
And a good dose of P.G. Wodehouse:
Dedication: To my daughter Leonora without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.
A certain critic — for such men, I regret to say, do exist — made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained ‘all the old Wodehouse characters under different names.’ He has probably by now been eaten by bears, like the children who made mock of the prophet Elisha: but if he still survives he will not be able to make a similar charge against Summer Lightning. With my superior intelligence, I have out-generalled the man this time by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy.
She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I am not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastly leg.”
Her face was shining like the seat of a bus-driver’s trousers.
A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of someone who had searched for the leak in life’s gas pipe with a lighted candle.
He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.
I always advise people never to give advice.
The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.
It was one of those parties where you cough twice before you speak and then decide not to say it after all.
The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.
If there is one thing I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine.
He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say “when!”.
Lady Glossip: Mr. Wooster, how would you support a wife? Bertie Wooster: Well, I suppose it depends on who’s wife it was, a little gentle pressure beneath the elbow while crossing a busy street usually fits the bill.
At five minutes to eleven on the morning named he was at the station, a false beard and spectacles shielding his identity from the public eye. If you had asked him he would have said that he was a Scotch business man. As a matter of fact, he looked far more like a motor-car coming through a haystack.
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.
He trusted neither of them as far as he could spit, and he was a poor spitter, lacking both distance and control.
He was not a man who prattled readily, especially in a foreign tongue. He gave the impression that each word was excavated from his interior by some up-to-date process of mining.
‘Alf Todd,’ said Ukridge, soaring to an impressive burst of imagery, ‘has about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild-cat’s ear with a red-hot needle.’