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Being Ymor’s right-hand man was like being gently flogged to death with scented bootlaces.
“I assure you the thought never even crossed my mind, Lord.” “Indeed? Then if I were you I’d sue my face for slander.”
No, what he didn’t like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk.
Twoflower was a tourist, the first ever seen on the Discworld. Tourist, Rincewind had decided, meant “idiot.”
Law of Conservation of Reality; this demanded that the effort needed to achieve a goal should be the same regardless of the means used.
If words had weight, a single sentence from Death would have anchored a ship.
It was the sort of grin that is normally accompanied by small riverside birds wandering in and out, picking scraps out of the teeth.
Rincewind tried to force the memory out of his mind, but it was rather enjoying itself there, terrorizing the other occupants and kicking over the furniture.
The Loremaster, watching from the pillar he had prudently slid behind in the mad scramble, happened at that moment to catch the cross-dimensional echoes of a theory being at the same instant hatched in the mind of an early psychiatrist in an adjacent universe, possibly because the dimension-leak was flowing both ways, and for a moment the psychiatrist saw the girl on the dragon. The Loremaster smiled.
That is to say: while it was true that they had just appeared in this particular set of dimensions, it was also true that they had been living in them all along. It is at this point that normal language gives up, and goes and has a drink.
“We don’t have gods where I come from,” said Twoflower. “You do, you know,” said the Lady. “Everyone has gods. You just don’t think they’re gods.”
