Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

by Terry Pratchett

Crowley fumbled vaguely in an inside pocket and produced a pen. It was sleek and matte black. It looked as though it could exceed the speed limit.

It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.

Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men.

Angels had certain moral standards to maintain and so, unlike Crowley, he preferred to buy his clothes rather than wish them into being from raw firmament.

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.

In vain did he point out its 823cc engine, its three-speed gearbox, its incredible safety devices like the balloons which inflated on dangerous occasions such as when you were doing 45 mph on a straight dry road but were about to crash because a huge safety balloon had just obscured the view.

Speed it up, and the sound a tree makes is vroooom.

There is a tiny metal thing above it. The kraken stirs. And ten billion sushi dinners cry out for vengeance.

He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did. What he did was put the fear of God into them.

He could play Hastur over and over again, until he turned into Freddie Mercury. No. He might be a bastard, but you could only go so far.

THEY CAME DOWN the outside lane of the motorway like destroying angels, which was fair enough.

“I’ll ne’r listen tae his hellish blandishments, woman,” said Shadwell. Madame Tracy smiled at him. “You old silly,” she said. He could have handled anything else. He sat down.

So computers are tools of the Devil? thought Newt. He had no problem believing it. Computers had to be the tools of somebody, and all he knew for certain was that it definitely wasn’t him.

Your car is on fire. No. Tyler just couldn’t bring himself to say it. I mean, the man had to know that, didn’t he? He was sitting in the middle of it. Possibly it was some kind of practical joke.

It had occurred to War that there might one day be an end to War, an end to Famine, possibly even an end to Pollution, and perhaps this was why the fourth and greatest horseman was never exactly what you might call one of the lads. It was like having a tax inspector in your football team.

“D’yer see my finger?” shouted Shadwell, whose sanity was still attached to him but only on the end of a long and rather frayed string.

“I don’t see what’s so triffic about creating people as people and then gettin’ upset ’cos they act like people,” said Adam severely.

You start thinking: it can’t be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire.

The road to Hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen.