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Then Death said, ARE YOU HUNGRY, BOY? “Yes, sir.” The words came straight from his stomach without the intervention of his brain.
Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it’s the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it’s just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colorful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.
grandfather clock with a tick like the heartbeat of a mountain.
The smell attracted Mort’s taste buds from across the room, hinting that if they got together they could really enjoy themselves.
He’d been wrong, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower.
History isn’t like that. History unravels gently, like an old sweater. It has been patched and darned many times, reknitted to suit different people, shoved in a box under the sink of censorship to be cut up for the dusters of propaganda, yet it always—eventually—manages to spring back into its old familiar shape.
History has a habit of changing the people who think they are changing it. History always has a few tricks up its frayed sleeve. It’s been around a long time.
People don’t alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it. Inch by inch, implacable as a glacier and far colder,
Well, I wish I’d get out of my head, it’s quite crowded enough with me in here.
In the great party of Creation, he was always in the kitchen.
