English - Writer | October 15, 1881 - February 14, 1975
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.
P. G. Wodehouse
LifeWorthDespairSalvationHer
He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'
ClothesSayLittleForgottenBeen
He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.
WhiteDryMartiniLikeHeShaken
I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
SeeBeingFarHeActuallyCould
The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.
ShortUpsetMissedHimButterflies
I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.
TypewriterSitCurseJustBit
Has anybody ever seen a dramatic critic in the daytime? Of course not. They come out after dark, up to no good.
GoodDarkOutUpCriticSeen
She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
LaughTrainSheTunnelGoingRather
Success comes to a writer as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.
SuccessLookBackHeightsRealize
I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don't know what I did before that. Just loafed I suppose.
WritingKnowFiveJustStoriesDid
Sudden success in golf is like the sudden acquisition of wealth. It is apt to unsettle and deteriorate the character.
SuccessCharacterGolfWealthLike
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