Monstrous Regiment (Discworld, #31; Industrial Revolution, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

“Whoms” were likely to be far more trouble than your common, everyday “who.”

The four lesser apocalyptical horsemen of Panic, Bewilderment, Ignorance, and Shouting took control of the room,

one of those people who bustled about being helpful in a mildly annoying way, taking over small jobs that you wouldn’t have minded doing for yourself.

His face just eased its way into his neck without much to disturb it on the way,

“I would like to eat chocolates in a great big room where the world is a different place,”

an army on campaign is a sort of large, portable city. It has only one employer, and it manufactures dead people, but,

When beardless lads dress up as gels, there’s no doubt that people will get confused. And that’s what we’ve got here, Sergeant. Mere confusion. Mistaken identities. Much ado, in fact, about nothing.

Very few abominations, no special clothing, and hymns you can sing in the bath.

You don’t appear to be as insane as your country’s foreign policy.

“We are a proud country.” “What are you proud of?”

Somehow those words locked you away, put you in your place, patted you on the head and dismissed you with a sweetie.

The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier than the siege weapon.

the crowd would close over it like a hand, open again like a flower.

Caring for small things had to start with caring for big things, and maybe the world wasn’t big enough.