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Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin.
As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: “When shall we three meet again?” There was a pause. Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: “Well, I can do next Tuesday.”
It was dawning on him that the pleasures of the flesh were pretty sparse without the flesh. Suddenly life wasn’t worth living. The fact that he wasn’t living it didn’t cheer him up at all.
It had, however, been declared by his own physician to be a case of natural causes. Bentzen had gone to see the man and explained that falling down a flight of steps with a dagger in your back was a disease caused by unwise opening of the mouth. In fact it had already been caught by several members of the king’s own bodyguard who had been a little bit hard of hearing. There had been a minor epidemic.
It was a rich and wonderful voice, with every diphthong gliding beautifully into place. It was a golden brown voice. If the Creator of the multiverse had a voice, it was a voice such as this. If it had a drawback, it was that it wasn’t a voice you could use, for example, for ordering coal. Coal ordered by this voice would become diamonds.
She’d never mastered the talent for apologizing, but she appreciated it in other people.
Just call in at the torturer on your way out. See when he can fit you in.”
The days followed one another patiently. Right back at the beginning of the multiverse they had tried all passing at the same time, and it hadn’t worked.
“Is this a dagger I see before me?” he mumbled. “Um. No, my lord. It’s my handkerchief, you see. You can sort of tell the difference if you look closely. It doesn’t have as many sharp edges.”
The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.
witches, like beekeepers and big gorillas, went where they liked.
“There were screams,” said the Fool, who couldn’t help feeling they weren’t taking things seriously enough. “I daresay,” said Granny, pushing him aside and stepping over a writhing taproot. “If anyone locked me in a dungeon, there’d be screams.”
Ninety percent of true love is acute, ear-burning embarrassment.
He laid down the pen and rubbed his eyes. It must be nearly midnight, and the habit of a lifetime told him to spare the candles although, for a fact, they could afford all the candles they could eat now,
He clasped his hands to what would have been, but for a few chance chromosomes, his bosom.
The pay’s the thing.” Hwel raised his head. “What?” he said muzzily. “I said, the play’s the thing,”
Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.
“A magic sword is important,” said Magrat. “You’ve got to have one. We could make him one,” she added wistfully. “Out of thunderbolt iron. I’ve got a spell for that. You take some thunderbolt iron,” she said uncertainly, “and then you make a sword out of it.”
It was a landscape of describable beauty.
They passed through a gateway into what was, up here, probably called a town; the cosmopolitan he had become decided that, down on the plains, it would just about have qualified as an open space.
“This is the capital city of the kingdom,” said Nanny Ogg. “Well-designed streets, you’ll notice.” “Streets?” said Tomjon. “Street,” corrected Granny.
“I’d like to know if I could compare you to a summer’s day. Because—well, June 12th was quite nice, and…
“Witches just aren’t like that,” said Magrat. “We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and it’s wicked of them to say we don’t. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.”
Possession is nine parts of the law, husband, when what you possess is a knife.”
“We’re bound to be truthful,” she said. “But there’s no call to be honest.”
Quaffing is like drinking, but you spill more.
