Well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.

Love is a delicate plant that needs constant tending and nurturing, and this cannot be done by snorting at the adored object like a gas explosion and calling her friends lice.

As for Gussie Finknottle, many an experienced undertaker would have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming on sight.

Whenever I get that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.

Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.

It is no use telling me there are bad aunts and good aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.

I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

It is true of course, that I have a will of iron, but it can be switched off if the circumstances seem to demand it.

What's the use of a great city having temptations if fellows don't yield to them?

I hadn't the heart to touch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself.

She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.

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.

I just sit at my typewriter and curse a bit.

In a series of events, all of which had been a bit thick, this, in his opinion, achieved the maximum of thickness.

You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.

If he had a mind, there was something on it.

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

Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse.

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

I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.

It was one of those parties where you cough twice before you speak and then decide not to say it after all.

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?

Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.

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