ENagar

For the uninitiated, go through P_G_Wodehouse

·      “Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary,” murmured Psmith. (No earlier usage of the precise words “Elementary, my dear Watson” has yet been found, even in the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.)

·      Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times; but there are higher, nobler things than love. A woman is only a woman, but a hefty drive is a slosh.

·      This news item had come to him not as rare and refreshing fruit but more like a buffet on the base of the skull with a sock full of wet sand.

·       Routine is the death to heroism.

·      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.

·      The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.

·      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.

·      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.

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

·      It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought. (…cheers!!!)

·       Anybody can talk me round. If I were in a Trappist monastery, the first thing that would happen would be that some smooth performer would lure me into some frightful idiocy against my better judgment by means of the deaf-and-dumb language.

·       She fitted into my biggest armchair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing armchairs tight about the hips that season.

·       ‘The modern young man,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘is a congenital idiot and wants a nurse to lead him by the hand and some strong attendant to kick him regularly at intervals of a quarter of an hour.’

·      He groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch.

·      We do not tell old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an offence to the eyesight.

·      He had been looking like a dead fish. He now looked like a deader fish, one of last year’s, cast up on some lonely beach and left there at the mercy of the wind and tides.

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

·       I don’t say I’ve got much of a soul, but, such as it is, I’m perfectly satisfied with the little chap. I don’t want people fooling about with it. ‘Leave it alone,’ I say. ‘Don’t touch it. I like it the way it is.’

·      However devoutly a girl may worship the man of her choice, there always comes a time when she feels an irresistible urge to haul off and let him have it in the neck. (…been there, had that done on me)

·      It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn’t.