“A certain critic -- for such men, I regret to say, do exist -- made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained 'all the old Wodehouse characters under different names.' He has probably by now been eaten by bears, like the children who made mock of the prophet Elisha: but if he still survives he will not be able to make a similar charge against Summer Lightning. With my superior intelligence, I have out-generalled the man this time by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy.”

“The principle I always go on in writing a novel is to think of the characters in terms of actors in a play. I say to myself, if a big name were playing this part, and if he found that after a strong first act he had practically nothing to do in the second act, he would walk out. Now, then, can I twist the story so as to give him plenty to do all the way through? I believe the only way a writer can keep himself up to the mark is by examining each story quite coldly before he starts writing it and asking himself it is all right as a story. I mean, once you go saying to yourself, "This is a pretty weak plot as it stands, but if I'm such a hell of a writer that my magic touch will make it okay," you're sunk. If they aren't in interesting situations, characters can't be major characters, not even if you have the rest of the troop talk their heads off about them."(Interview, The Paris Review, Issue 64, Winter 1975)”

“He's quite a bit of a snob, you know, and when he hears I'm going to marry the daughter of an earl - ""I say, old man," I couldn't help saying, "aren't you looking ahead rather far?""Oh, that's all right. It's true nothing's actually settled yet, but she practically told me the other day she was fond of me.""What!""Well, she said that the sort of man she liked was the self-reliant, manly man with strength, good looks, character, ambition, and initiative.""Leave me, laddie," I said. "Leave me to my fried egg.”

“Brookfield, my correspondent, writes that last week he observed him in the moonlight at an advanced hour gazing up at his window.""Whose window? Brookfield's?""Yes, sir. Presumably under the impression that it was the young lady's.""But what the deuce is he doing at Twing at all?""Mr Little was compelled to resume his old position as tutor to Lord Wickhammersley's son at Twing Hall, sir. Owing to having been unsuccessful in some speculations at Hurst Park at the end of October.""Good Lord, Jeeves! Is there anything you don't know?""I couldn't say, sir.”

“My name's Bassington-Bassington, and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons - I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons aren't accustomed - "Old Blumenfeld told him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren't accustomed to. ..."You got to work good for my pop!" said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly at Cyril."I don't want any bally cheek from you!" said Cyril, gurgling a bit."What's that?" barked old Blumenfeld. "Do you understand that this boy is my son?""Yes, I do," said Cyril. "And you both have my sympathy!""You're fired!" bellowed old Blumenfeld, swelling a good bit more. "Get out of my theatre!”

“The boy is of an outspoken disposition, and had made an opprobrious remark respecting my personal appearance.""What did he say about your appearance?""I have forgotten, sir," said Jeeves, with a touch of austerity. "But it was opprobrious.”

“It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.”