More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Wimsey’s fingers tapped out an intricate fugal passage on the arm of his chair.
“It has its points. So has a porcupine.
“It always gives me the pip,” said Wimsey, “to see how rude people are when they’re married. I suppose it’s inevitable. Women are funny. They don’t seem to care half so much about a man’s being honest and faithful
I’m sure your brother’s all that—as for their opening doors and saying ‘thank you.’ I’ve noticed it lots of times.” “A man ought to be just as courteous after marriage as he was before,” declared Robert Fentiman virtuously. “So he ought, but he never is. Possibly there’s some reason we don’t know about,” said Wimsey. “I’ve asked people, you know—my usual inquisitiveness—and they generally just grunt and say that their wives are sensible and take their affection for granted. But I don’t believe women ever get sensible, not even through prolonged association with their husbands.”
Good night and may Morpheus hover over your couch and bless your slumbers.
Wimsey said that everything had the defects of its qualities.
“Glad to see there’s no antagonism between religion and science,” said Wimsey. “Of course not. Why should there be? We are all searching for Truth.”
Well, Dr. Penberthy, I’ve come, you see, to hear you make mincemeat of original sin.”
“My dear man, if you can cure sin with an injection, I shall be only too pleased. Only be sure you don’t pump in something worse in the process. You know the parable of the swept and garnished house.”
“You have reminded Science,” said Wimsey, “that only the Pope is infallible.”
One has an ancestral idea that women must be treated like imbeciles in a crisis. Centuries of the ‘women-and-children-first’ idea, I suppose. Poor devils!”
“Who—the women?” “Yes. No wonder they sometimes lose their heads. Pushed into corners, told nothing of what’s happening, and made to sit quiet and do nothing. Strong men would go dotty in the circs. I suppose that’s why we’ve always grabbed the privilege of rushing about and doing the heroic bits.”
Books, you know, Charles, are like lobster-shells. We surround ourselves with ’em, and then we grow out of ’em and leave ’em behind, as evidences of our earlier stages of development.”
“Yours is not a pleasant hobby, Lord Peter Wimsey.”
Between the normal and the abnormal, the gulf is deep, but so narrow that misrepresentation is made easy.
He has the valuable quality of being fond of people without wanting to turn them inside out
