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THERE IS NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE, said Death. “What does it contain, then?” ME.
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.
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
“Quick, you must come with me,” she said. “You’re in great danger!” “Why?” “Because I will kill you if you don’t.”
Now. We must flee. But with dignity of course.
the white-hot lines searing across his imagination never seem to come out exactly as he wants them.
Rincewind looked down at the snake, which was still trying to keep out of everyone’s way. It had a good thing going in the pit, and knew trouble when it saw it. It wasn’t about to cause any irritation for anyone. It stared right back up at Rincewind and shrugged, which is pretty clever for a reptile with no shoulders.
The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find…
They didn’t seem to grasp ideas properly; more particularly, they didn’t seem able to get the hang of doom. They suffered from the terrible delusion that something could be done. They seemed prepared to make the world the way they wanted it or die in the attempt, and the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt.
“If failure had no penalty success would not be a prize,”
“Are you alive?” he said. “If you’re not, I’d prefer it if you didn’t answer.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “No harm in that. I’ve never known what to do,” said Rincewind with hollow cheerfulness. “Been completely at a loss my whole life.” He hesitated. “I think it’s called being human, or something.”
It’s vital to remember who you really are. It’s very important. It isn’t a good idea to rely on other people or things to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong.”
He had since resisted all efforts to turn him back. He liked the handy long arms, the prehensile toes and the right to scratch himself in public, but most of all he liked the way all the big questions of existence had suddenly resolved themselves into a vague interest in where his next banana was coming from. It wasn’t that he was unaware of the despair and nobility of the human condition. It was just that as far as he was concerned you could stuff it.
Its skin is rare and highly valued, especially by the vermine itself; the selfish little bastard will do anything rather than let go of it.
