Hogfather (Discworld, #20; Death, #4)

by Terry Pratchett

The philosopher Didactylos has summed up an alternative hypothesis as “Things just happen. What the hell.”

“Ver’ well done,” said a guest. “Ver’ persykological. Clever idea, that, bendin’ the poker. And I expect you’re not afraid any more, eh, little girl?” “No,” said Twyla. “Ver’ persykological.” “Susan says don’t get afraid, get angry,” said Twyla.

In fact the Guild, he liked to think, practiced the ultimate democracy. You didn’t need intelligence, social position, beauty or charm to hire it. You just needed money which, unlike the other stuff, was available to everyone. Except for the poor, of course, but there was no helping some people.

Mister Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it was brilliant like a fractured mirror, all marvelous facets and rainbows but, ultimately, also something that was broken.

The children refused to disbelieve in the monsters because, frankly, they knew damn well the things were there. But she’d found that they could, very firmly, also believe in the poker.

After all, what was the point of teaching children to be children? They were naturally good at it.

Education had been easy. Learning things had been harder.

Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on.

He was known to Ankh-Morpork’s professional underclass as a thoughtful, patient man, and considered something of an intellectual because some of his tattoos were spelled right.

It was a strange but demonstrable fact that the sacks of toys carried by the Hogfather, no matter what they really contained, always appeared to have sticking out of the top a teddy bear, a toy soldier in the kind of colorful uniform that would stand out in a disco, a drum and a red-and-white candy cane. The actual contents always turned out to be something a bit garish and costing $5.99.

ablutionary

“Good man.” Ridcully put the gnome back in his pocket and looked up at Hex. “Amazin’,” he said again. “He just looks as though he’s thinking, right?” “Er . . . yes.” “But he’s not actually thinking?” “Er . . . no.” “So . . . he just gives the impression of thinking but really it’s just a show?” “Er . . . yes.” “Just like everyone else, then, really,” said Ridcully.

“You mean sort of fear and awe and not knowing whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants?” YES. NOW THAT IS WHAT I CALL BELIEF.

The fireball lifted him off his feet. Then it rose to the ceiling, where it spread out widely and vanished with a pop, leaving a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched plaster.

“Careful, Archchancellor,” warned the Dean. “What you have there might represent pure sobriety.” Ridcully paused with the finger halfway to his lips. “Good point,” he said. “I don’t want to start being sober at my time of life.” He looked around. “How do we usually test stuff?” “Generally

The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step. Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, they’re probably all on first steps.

It was amazing how many people spent their whole lives in places where they never intended to stay.

“Charity ain’t giving people what you wants to give, it’s giving people what they need to get.”

The shape of Death was the shape people had created for him, over the centuries. Why bony? Because bones were associated with death. He’d got a scythe because agricultural people could spot a decent metaphor. And he lived in a somber land because the human imagination would be rather stretched to let him live somewhere nice with flowers.

“Hogswatch is coming, The pig is getting fat, Please put a dollar in the old man’s hat If you ain’t got a dollar a penny will do—” “And if you ain’t got a penny,” Foul Ole Ron yodeled, solo, “then—fghfgh yffg mfmfmf . . .”

salubrious

Non temetis messor.

*The ceremony still carries on, of course. If you left off traditions because you didn’t know why they started you’d be no better than a foreigner.