“I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.” — P. G. Wodehouse

Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

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

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.