Wintersmith (Discworld, #35; Tiffany Aching, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

They carried sticks and wore white clothes with bells on them, to stop them from creeping up on people. No one likes an unexpected Morris dancer.

Really, the people of the village of Dogbend were getting very stupid indeed. Of course, that’s what happened when you got rid of your witches. A witch was just someone who knew a bit more than you did. That’s what the name meant. And some people didn’t like anyone who knew more than they did, so these days the wandering teachers and the traveling librarians steered clear of the place. The way things were going, if the people of Dogbend wanted to throw stones at anyone who knew more than them, they’d soon have to throw them at the pigs.

They say that there can never be two snowflakes that are exactly alike, but has anyone checked lately?

One of the advantages of living in a castle was that rooms were easy to lock; his door had three iron locks and two bolts that were as thick as his arm.

“Oh aye, ye canna beat a good wake,” said Rob Anybody. “Wi’ lots o’ boozin’ an’ dancin’ an’ greetin’ an feastin’ an’ boozin’.”

We shall hold the funeral tomorrow afternoon.” “Sorry? You mean before you die?” said Tiffany. “Why, of course! I don’t see why I shouldn’t have some fun!” “Good thinkin’!” said Rob Anybody. “That’s the kind o’ sensible detail people usually fails tae consider.” “We call it a going-away party,” said Miss Treason.

Some people think that “coven” is a word for a group of witches, and it’s true that’s what the dictionary says. But the real word for a group of witches is an “argument.”

There was no sense in killing your enemy. How would she know you’d won?

“Ach, this is no’ a proper wake,” said Rob Anybody. “There should be singin’ an’ boozin’ an’ the flexin’ o’ the knees, no’ all this standin’ aroond gossipin’.” “Well, gossiping’s part of witchcraft,” said Tiffany. “They’re checking to see if they’ve gone batty yet. What is the flexin’ o’ the knees?” “The dancin’, ye ken,” said Rob. “The jigs an’ reels. ’Tis no’ a good wake unless the hands is flingin’ an’ the feets is twinklin’ an’ the knees is flexin’ an’ the kilts is flyin’.” Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin’ o’ the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now. “Tell me . . . is there anything worn under the kilt?”

“You have a dictionary, I believe,” she said. “A strange but useful thing for a girl to have.”

“Miss Treason!” she snapped, pushing her way through the mob. “Remember you have an appointment!” It wasn’t the best thing to say, but a lot better than: “You said you were going to die in about five minutes’ time!”

The trouble is, you can shut your eyes but you can’t shut your mind.

Winter never dies. Not as people die. It hangs on in late frost and the smell of autumn in a summer evening, and in the heat it flees to the mountains. Summer never dies. It sinks into the ground; in the depths, winter buds form in sheltered places and white shoots creep under dead leaves. Some of it flees into the deepest, hottest deserts, where there is a summer that never ends. To animals they were just the weather, just part of everything.

You could learn a lot from books.

People wanted the world to be a story, because stories had to sound right and they had to make sense. People wanted the world to make sense.

If she were drowning and you threw her a rope, she’d complain if it was the wrong color. . . .

“And what about these cherubs? We’re not going to get them too, are we? I don’t like to see little babies flying through the air.” “They turn up a lot in old paintings,” said Nanny Ogg. “They put them in to show it’s Art and not just naughty pictures of ladies with not many clothes on.”

“Do you know what human is?” said Tiffany. “Yes! Easy! Iron enough to make a nail!”

“A metaphor is a kind o’ lie to help people understand what’s true,”

“And he won her freedom by playing beautiful music,” Roland added. “I think he played a lute. Or maybe it was a lyre.” “Ach, weel, that’ll suit us fine,” said Daft Wullie. “We’re experts at lootin’ an’ then lyin’ aboot it.” “They’re musical instruments,” said Billy Bigchin.

“It’s called resonance,” she said. “Do you know what that is?” “It means ‘vibrating with,’” said Tiffany. “How does a sheep-girl know that?” “I have a dictionary,” said Tiffany. “And I’m a witch, thank you.”

“But who does like witches until they need one, Mistress Weatherwax?”