Sourcery (Discworld, #5; Rincewind, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

Despite rumor, Death isn’t cruel—merely terribly, terribly good at his job.

“I meant,” said Ipslore, bitterly, “what is there in this world that makes living worthwhile?” Death thought about it. CATS, he said eventually, CATS ARE NICE. “Curse you!”

Ge Fordge’s Compenydyum of Sex Majick is kept in a vat of ice in a room all by itself and there’s a strict rule that it can only be read by wizards who are over eighty and, if possible, dead.

His name was Spelter. He was tall and wiry and looked as though he had been a horse in previous lives and had only just avoided it in this one. He always gave people the impression that he was looking at them with his teeth.

“How do you pay for this stuff? Every time anyone gives you any money you eat it.” “Oook.” “Amazing.”

“But she’s a—” Rincewind hesitated. “She’s of the female persuasion…” he muttered. So was your mother.

“This is the Great Hall,” he said. Coin turned his golden gaze toward him, and the wizard felt his mouth dry up. “It’s called that because it’s a hall, d’you see. And big.” He swallowed. “It’s a big hall,” he said, fighting to stop the last of his coherence being burned away by the searchlight of that stare. “A great big hall, which is why it’s called—”

Just by looking at him you could tell he was the sort of man you’d expect to keep a white cat, and caress it idly while sentencing people to death in a piranha tank;

“Our Spelter is an aesthete,” said Coin, and there was a brief chuckle from one or two wizards who knew what the word meant,

May I read you my latest oeuvre?” “Egg?” said Rincewind, who wasn’t following this.

Take her to the seraglio, although,” he rolled his eyes and gave an irritable sigh, “I’m sure the only fate that awaits her there is boredom, and possibly a sore throat.”

They were all in awe of Sconner, who was rumored to do positive-thinking exercises.

His face went blank as his ears digested what they had just heard his lips say.

“Talent just defines what you do,” he said. “It doesn’t define what you are. Deep down, I mean. When you know what you are, you can do anything.”

“I’m not going to ride on a magic carpet!” he hissed. “I’m afraid of grounds!” “You mean heights,” said Conina. “And stop being silly.” “I know what I mean! It’s the grounds that kill you!”

There was a respectful silence, as there always is when large sums of money have just passed away.

High over the Circle Sea Rincewind was feeling like a bit of an idiot. This happens to everyone sooner or later.