I have English family in Northhampton and have been to England numerous times.
Evidently an A level in English is a sacred trust, like something out of "The Lord of the Rings". You must go forth with your A level and protect the English language with your bow of elfin gold.
The English countryside, its growth and its destruction, is a genuine and tragic theme.
You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don't mind my saying so. I don't mind.
We're gonna be late for English, and I gotta take these pantyhose off on the way. I'm gettin' a serious wedgie.
If you have to be at work at 8, it's always like, 7:54. Just enough time to do nothing. To just lay there and go, "I can't do anything! I can't even have an English muffin!
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against this as a method, but it is not what English writers do.
I learned my job from English dramatists. Tennessee Williams was no good for me, New York stuff was no good to me.
The English instinctively admire any man who has no talent and is modest about it.
The English are a nation of consummate cant.
I fell even more deeply in love with Tolkiens legendarium after studying Old English literature at uni, as I got a sense of the historical events and cultures that Tolkien used to create his world. My favourite of his imaginary locations is Lothlorien.
On the one hand, there is no question that English - frequently bad English - has become the universal language of scholarship. It is clearly a tremendous handicap for people outside of the United States, Britain, and Australia and a few other countries because few of them are native speakers, but we demand that they present and publish in English.
If you want to be happy, live discreetly. Does that make sense in English?
I wish the English still possessed a shred of the old sense of humour which Puritanism, and dyspepsia, and newspaper reading, and tea-drinking have nearly extinguished.
There are not many English novels which deserve to be called great: Parade's End is one of them.
What, then, is this new man, the American? They are a mixture of English, Scotch, Irish, French, Dutch, Germans, and Swedes. From this promiscuous breed, that race, now called Americans, have arisen.
I don't take the English press seriously at all because all they want is dirt. . . I hate them.
The English press treated the world premiere of my first talking picture as a major event.
But the English are different, and they don't know how to be other than different.