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

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.

Every author really wants to have letters printed in the papers. Unable to make the grade, he drops down a rung of the ladder and writes novels.