Men capable of governing empires fail to control a small white ball, which presents no difficulties whetever to others with one ounce more brain than a cuckoo clock. I wish to goodness I knew the man who invented this infernal game. I'd strangle him. But I suppose he's been dead for ages. Still, I could go and jump on his grave.
P. G. WodehouseShe looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.
P. G. WodehouseHe felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.
P. G. WodehouseGolf is the Great Mystery. Like some capricous goddess, it bestows its favours with what would appear an almost fat-headed lack of method and discrimination. On every side we see big two-fisted he-men floundering round in three figures, stopping every few minutes to let through little shrimps with knock-knees and hollow cheeks, who are tearing up snappy seventy-fours.
P. G. WodehouseWoman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.
P. G. Wodehouse