Jingo (Discworld, #21; City Watch, #4)

by Terry Pratchett

I feel it is the Clam before the Storm and no mistake.

In any case, you couldn’t really imprison someone like Leonard of Quirm. The most you could do was lock up his body. The gods alone knew where his mind went.

After all, when you seek advice from someone it’s certainly not because you want them to give it. You just want them to be there while you talk to yourself.

“My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” said Carrot. “Really? Well, there’s eleven of them.”

It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I’m one of Us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We’re always one of Us. It’s Them that do the bad things.

“It is always useful to face an enemy who is prepared to die for his country,” he read. “This means that both you and he have exactly the same aim in mind.”

You had to hope that when push came to shove you’d act the right way. But there was something slightly creepy about someone who didn’t just believe it, but lived their life by it. It was as unnerving as meeting a really poor priest.

“I did not understand!” The man’s face screwed up as he tried to assemble the unfamiliar syllables. “It sounded like . . .” he swallowed, and went on, “‘Ye gods, that was better out than in, sarge!’”

Another squall blew across the bounding boat and the deck was suddenly covered with flashing silver. “Back to fish!” shouted Vimes. “That’s better, surely?” “No! It’s worse!” “Why!” Jenkins held up a tin. “These are sardines!”

But you know what they say, lad. ‘Give a man a fire and he’s warm for a day, but set fire to him and he’s warm for the rest of his life.’

Night poured over the desert. It came suddenly, in purple. In the clear air, the stars drilled down out of the sky, reminding any thoughtful watcher that it is in the deserts and high places that religions are generated. When men see nothing but bottomless infinity over their heads they have always had a driving and desperate urge to find someone to put in the way.

“Look, I’ll put mine on, all right?” “Then we’ll be fez to fez, sarge.” Sergeant Colon gave him a severe look. “Did you have that one prepared, Nobby?”