The Truth (Discworld, #25; Industrial Revolution, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

an injunction to keep the lid on the privy down so that the Dragon of Unhappiness wouldn’t fly up his bottom.

calling a tavern the Bucket was not a decision destined to feature in Great Marketing Decisions of History.

But too much reading had taken its toll. William found that he now thought of prayer as a sophisticated way of pleading with thunderstorms.

“Young Caslong here thought you might like this as a souvenir,”

Caslon, yay

An engraved page was an engraved page, complete and unique. But if you took the leaden letters that had previously been used to set the words of a god, and then used them to set a cookery book, what did that do to the holy wisdom? For that matter, what would it do to the pie?

Boddony, who seemed to be second in command of the print room,

Bodoni ha ha

He knew about concerned citizens. Wherever they were, they all spoke the same private language, where “traditional values” meant “hang someone.”

“On the house!” said Dibbler. He stunned two sausages, enbunned them, and thrust them forward.

William wondered why he always disliked people who said “no offense meant.” Maybe it was because they found it easier to say “no offense meant” than actually to refrain from giving offense.

“But strong light hurts you!” said Sacharissa. “It hurts vampires!” “Yes. It iss a bit of a bugger, but zere you go.” “And, er, that happens every time you take a picture, does it?” said William. “No, sometimes it iss a lot vorse.” “Worse?” “I sometimes crumble to dust. But zat which does not kill us makes us stronk.” “Stronk?” “Indeed!”

Since the stones of Ankh-Morpork were recycled over the generations, no one had ever seen the point of making strong mortar, and especially not for blocking up an old doorway. Sand, dirt, water, and phlegm would do the trick, they felt.

Spit or swallow, he thought, the eternal conundrum.

“Are you sure of all this, William?” she said. “Yes.” “I mean, some bits—are you sure it’s all true?” “I’m sure it’s all journalism,” said William. “And what is that supposed to mean?” “It means it’s true enough for now.”

“But surely dogs can’t talk—” Sacharissa began. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” said Gaspode. “Did I say I was talking?” “Well, not in so many words—” “Right. Wonderful thing, phenomenology.

Pulling together is the aim of despotism and tyranny. Free men pull in all kinds of directions.”