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.

We might find out why mankind is here, although that is more complicated and begs the question “Where else should we be?”

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.

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

“Well, I for one have never believed all that business about dead animals turning into stone,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s against all reason. What’s in it for them?” “So how do you explain fossils, then?” said Ponder. “Ah, you see, I don’t,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, with a triumphant smile. “It saves so much trouble in the long run. How do skinless sausages hold together, Mister Stibbons?” “What? Eh? How should I know something like that?” “Really? You don’t know that but you think you’re entirely qualified to know how the whole universe was put together, do you? Anyway, you don’t have to explain fossils. They’re there. Why try to turn everything into a big mystery? If you go around asking questions the whole time you’ll never get anything done.”

Above Ponder, he felt, were a lot of dead men’s shoes. And they had living men’s feet in them, and were stamping down hard.

Discworld constellations changed frequently as the world moved through the void, which meant that astrology was cutting-edge research rather than, as elsewhere, a clever way of avoiding a proper job.

Ridcully told jokes like a bullfrog did accountancy. They never added up.

“That’s the beauty of the system. Dead is only for once, but running away is for ever.”

Then another insight struck him at the speed of beer. Beer! It was only water, really, with stuff in it. Wasn’t it? And most of what was in it was yeast, which was practically a medicine and definitely a food. In fact, when you thought about it, beer was only a kind of runny bread, in fact, it’d be better to use some of the beer in the soup! Beer soup! A few brain cells registered their doubt, but the rest of them grabbed them by the collar and said hoarsely, people cooked chicken in wine, didn’t they?

The thing about late-night cookery was that it made sense at the time. It always had some logic behind it. It just wasn’t the kind of logic you’d use around midday.

There were other groans as bits of tidal debris turned out to be wizards mixed with seaweed.

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

As loudly as a thunderstorm under the bed but as softly as two soufflés colliding, past and present ran into each other.