Croquet Quotes

“You're doing it again. Using reason to argue faith. Can't be done. Like playing croquet with a crochet hook. Sounds something like the right tool for the job, but isn't.”
― K.J. Bishop, The Etched City

“Get me into the game, Izzy," Cameron said when he reached Isabella at the edge of Hart’s well-groomed lawn. Pairs of ladies and gentlemen waited beyond, a few gentlemen swinging mallets and rolling shoulders to show off for the ladies.

Isabella turned to Cameron in surprise. "We’re playing croquet."

"Yes, I know what the devil it is. Give me a damned mallet."

"But you hate croquet." Isabella continued to blink green eyes at him.

"I don’t hate it today. I want you to pair me with Mrs. Douglas."

"Ah." Isabella’s surprised look turned to one of interest. "Mrs. Douglas, is it?”
― Jennifer Ashley, The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

“Is it possible that you are unaware of the significance of cheese in a croquet tournament?”
― Jodi Taylor, And the Rest Is History

“As soon as the pegs were driven in and the game started, the man was transfigured. From his habitual, slow, ponderous, rather rigid self, he changed into a terrifically mobile, scampering, mute, sly-visaged hunchback.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin

“That weekend, at the Kaufmans’, we got into a hot session of croquet.
During a game one of the servants came to the court to announce that two ladies from the Society of Friends were in the house, keeping their appointment with Mrs. Kaufman. Beatrice excused herself-she’d forgotten the date, something to do with local charities-and said she’d only be gone a few minutes.
Half an hour passed. George was getting edgy. It would be his shot as soon as the game resumed, and he was in a good position to win. He couldn’t wait any longer. He went inside to rescue Beatrice from the Quakers. Twenty minutes passed. No Beatrice. No George either. Now I was getting edgy. I looked in the window. There sat both the Kaufmans, cozily sipping tea with the ladies from the Society of Friends. I went to the kitchen and dumped a bottle of ketchup down the front of my shirt and pants. I went to the doorway of the living room, where I stood, dripping ketchup.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” I said, addressing Beatrice. “I’ve killed the one cat and he’ll be ready for dinner, but I still haven’t caught the other one. Will one be enough?”
The visitors departed in haste, and our game resumed. Beatrice couldn’t stop laughing over the Quakers’ retreat, but George was practically reduced to ashes. He couldn’t get his ball through another wicket, and never did make it to the stake.”
― Harpo Marx, Harpo Speaks!