Eric (Discworld, #9)

by Terry Pratchett

He was ninety-eight, and had achieved this worthwhile age by carefully not being any trouble or threat to anyone.

Pre-eminent amongst Rincewind’s talents was his skill in running away, which over the years he had elevated to the status of a genuinely pure science; it didn’t matter if you were fleeing from or to, so long as you were fleeing. It was flight alone that counted. I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I’ll still be.

“There’s a door,” he whispered. “Where does it go?” “It stays where it is, I think,” said Rincewind.

“Going to go a long way, that lad,” said Rincewind. “A sound military thinker if ever I saw one. Come on. Let’s run away.” “Where to?” Rincewind sighed. He’d tried to make his basic philosophy clear time and again, and people never got the message. “Don’t you worry about to,” he said. “In my experience that always takes care of itself. The important word is away.”

Hell, it has been suggested, is other people.