The Last Continent (Discworld, #22; Rincewind, #6)

by Terry Pratchett

The ability to ask questions like “Where am I and who is the ‘I’ that is asking?” is one of the things that distinguishes mankind from, say, cuttlefish.*

being perhaps the intellectual cream or certainly the cerebral yogurt of their generation,

When it’s time to stop living, I will certainly make Death my number one choice!”

That was the thing about fire. If you saw one, everyone went to put it out. Fire spread like wildfire.

The worst time in your life was when nothing much was going on, because that meant that something bad was about to hit you. For some strange reason.

Every minute not being a minute wasted was, well, a minute wasted. Excitement? That could happen to other people.

“Says you’re a . . . good bloke and we’re not to . . . hang you . . .” He straightened up. “Mind you, we wouldn’t do that anyway, not now. Best bloody escape we’ve ever bloody had since Tinhead Ned!”

Rincewind looked blankly at the pardon. “You mean I’m getting this for being a good sport?”

The last few drops hammered out a little rhythm that said: now we know where you are, we’ll be coming back . .

*There’s a certain type of manager who is known by his call of “My door is always open” and it is probably a good idea to beat yourself to death with your own CV rather than work for him.

*Any seasoned traveler soon learns to avoid anything wished on them as a “regional specialty,” because all the term means is that the dish is so unpleasant the people living everywhere else will bite off their own legs rather than eat it.