Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.

I have written it before and am not ashamed to write it again. Without Wodehouse I am not sure that I would be a tenth of what I am today — whatever that may be....

Beauty doesn’t have to be about anything. What’s a vase about? What’s a sunset or a flower about? What, for that matter, is Mozart’s Twenty-third Piano Concerto about?

It would take more than long-stemmed roses to change my view that you’re a despicable cowardy custard and a disgrace to a proud family. Your ancestors fought in the Crusades and were often mentioned in...

She gave me another of those long keen looks, and I could see that she was again asking herself if her favourite nephew wasn’t steeped to the tonsils in the juice of the grape.

Bicky rocked, like a jelly in a high wind.

One of the Georges,” said Psmith, “I forget which, once said that a certain number of hours’ sleep a day–I cannot recall for the moment how many–made a man something, which for the time being...

Man’s inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing. One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest effect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may...

I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.

I mean, imagine how some unfortunate Master Criminal would feel, on coming down to do a murder at the old Grange, if he found that not only was Sherlock Holmes putting in the weekend there,...