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

by Terry Pratchett

People don’t live on the Disc any more than, in less hand-crafted parts of the multiverse, they live on balls. Oh, planets may be the place where their body eats its tea, but they live elsewhere, in worlds of their own which orbit very handily around the center of their heads.

Wasn’t it a basic principle never to let your employer know what it is you actually do all day?

Unfortunately, like many people who are instinctively bad at something, the Archchancellor prided himself on how good at it he was. Ridcully was to management what King Herod was to the Bethlehem Playgroup Association.

A man sits in some museum somewhere and writes a harmless book about political economy and suddenly thousands of people who haven’t even read it are dying because the ones who did haven’t got the joke.

Knowledge is dangerous, which is why governments often clamp down on people who can think thoughts above a certain caliber.

It is very easy to get ridiculously confused about the tenses of time travel, but most things can be resolved by a sufficiently large ego.

I THINK PERHAPS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. PEOPLE’S WHOLE LIVES DO PASS IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES BEFORE THEY DIE. THE PROCESS IS CALLED “LIVING.” WOULD YOU LIKE A PRAWN?

“We put all our politicians in prison as soon as they’re elected. Don’t you?” “Why?” “It saves time.”