I'd love to see this play performed. It was hilarious reading.
My heart sank within me. The sorapus nutshell had proved a false prophet, and, after all, my intuition had been correct -- it was the left-hand channel that I should have followed.
Right. Because all women are simpering wimps who collapse at the realization they've made a poor decision.
'Women,' said Psmith, helping himself to trifle, and speaking with the air of one launched upon his special subject, 'are, one must recollect, like -- like -- er, well, in fact, just so.'
Psmith, losing his characteristic wit for a brief moment in Psmith in the City
You seriously have to love the guy for dodging the issue in such an adorable manner, don't you?
And a couple of Psmith's remarks on work:
p.44 of Psmith in the City
p. 48 of Psmith in the City
Mr. Bickersdyke sat in his private room at the New Asiatic Bank with a pile of newspapers before him. At least, the casual observer would have said that it was Mr. Bickersdyke. In reality, however, it was an active volcano in the shape and clothes of the bank-manager.
Who would you want to hang out with? Chekov? Burroughs? Wodehouse?