Making Money (Discworld, #36; Industrial Revolution, #5; Moist von Lipwig, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

All the way to Genua there were people who’d been duped, fooled, swindled, and cheated by that face. The only thing he hadn’t done was hornswoggle, and that was only because he hadn’t found out how to.

At twenty-nine minutes past eleven the alarm on his desk clock went bing. Moist got up, put his chair under the desk, walked to the door, counted to three, opened it, said “Hello, Tiddles” as the Post Office’s antique cat padded in, counted to nineteen as the cat did its circuit of the room, said “Good-bye, Tiddles” as it plodded back into the corridor, shut the door, and went back to his desk. You just opened the door for an elderly cat who’s lost hold of the concept of walking around things, he told himself, as he rewound the alarm. You do it every day. Do you think that’s the action of a sane man? Okay, it’s sad to see him standing for hours with his head up against a chair until someone moves it, but now you get up every day to move the chair for him. This is what honest work does to a person.

What harm can it do to find out? It’s a question that left bruises down the centuries, even more than “It can’t hurt if I only take one” and “It’s all right if you only do it standing up.”

It was sad, like those businessmen who came to work in serious clothes but wore colorful ties in a mad, desperate attempt to show there was a free spirit in there somewhere.

Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions (a) are canonically against what they do inside and (b) bank there?

There was going to have to be a huge razor blade in a stick of cotton candy this big.

There was a hush in the bank, mostly because the ceiling was so high that sounds were just lost, but partly because people lower their voices in the presence of large sums of money.

“I know if you want to sell the sausage you have to know how to sell the sizzle.”

“Mrs. Lavish is a jolly old stick, isn’t she?” Moist ventured. “I believe she is what is known as a ‘character,’ sir,” said Bent somberly.

“I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,” Bent replied as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I have no sense of humor whatsoever. None at all. It has been proven by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.” “Have you tried—” Moist began, but Bent held up a hand. “Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!”

take care, when you are closely observing, that you are not closely observed.

“You use words, and I’m told you do it well, but words are soft and can be pummeled into different meanings by a skilled tongue. Numbers are hard. Oh, you can cheat with them but you cannot change their nature. Three is three. You cannot persuade it to be four, even if you give it a great big kiss.”

Whoever said you can’t fool an honest man wasn’t one.

Funny, that: a brigand for a father was something you kept quiet about, but a slave-taking pirate for a great-great-great-grandfather was something to boast of over the port. Time turned the evil bastards into rogues, and rogue was a word with a twinkle in its eye and nothing to be ashamed of.

the bank needs to be run by someone who understands banks.” “People who understand banks got it into the position it is in now,” said Vetinari.

I did not become ruler of Ankh-Morpork by understanding the city. Like banking, the city is depressingly easy to understand. I have remained ruler by getting the city to understand me.”

“When you don’t know what to do, comb your hair and clean your shoes.

“But I thought we’d all agreed that you don’t need the gold?” he said. In fact, they hadn’t, but it was worth a try. “Ah, yes, but it’s got to be there somewhere,” said Mr. Drayman. “It keeps banks honest,” said Mr. Poleforth, in the tone of plonking certainty that is the hallmark of that most knowledgeable of beings, The Man In The Pub. “But I thought you understood,” said Moist. “You don’t need the gold!” “Right, sir, right,” said Mr. Poleforth soothingly. “Just so long as it’s there.”

But, in fact, there was no power in the world that could keep a bank honest if it didn’t want to be.

But he wouldn’t be Moist von Lipwig if a certain amount of insouciance didn’t rise to heal the wounds.

Stamp collecting! It had started on day one, and then ballooned like some huge . . . thing, running on strange, mad rules. Was there any other field where flaws made things worth more? Would you buy a suit just because one arm was shorter than the other? Or because a bit of spare cloth was still attached?

Sensible, upright people, who worked hard every day, nevertheless believed, against all experience, in money for nothing.

“Why are you always in such a hurry, Mr. Lipwig?” “Because people don’t like change. But make the change happen fast enough and you go from one type of normal to another.”

“I just wonder why you choose to live here?” “I like the dullness, sir. It expects nothing of me.”

“I’m an Igor, thur. We don’t athk quethtionth.” “Really? Why not?” “I don’t know, thur. I didn’t athk.”

“What did . . . it feel like?” “Hard to explain,” said Clamp. “But it sounded like the smell of raspberries tastes.”

we talked to some of the lads from the Post Office last night and they said we could trust Mr. Lipwig’s word ’cos he’s as straight as a corkscrew.” “A corkscrew?” said Bent, shocked. “Yeah, we asked about that, too,” said Shady. “And they said he acts curly but that’s okay ’cos he damn well gets the corks out!”

They told him that he could give it up anytime he liked. Any hour, any minute, any second. And because he could, he didn’t . . . every hour, every minute, every second. There had to be a reason why.

“It’s a sliding puzzle,” said Adora Belle, “but with lots more directions to slide.” “That is a very graphic analogy which aids understanding wonderfully while being, strictly speaking, wrong in every possible way,” said Ponder.

The only reason that her words came out at the speed of sound was that she couldn’t make them go any faster.

“Commander Vimes says that when life hands you a mess of spaghetti, just keep pulling until you find the meatball.

How many nights in the arms of beautiful women were worth a sack of gold? The price of a good woman was proverbially above rubies, so a skillfully bad one was worth presumably a lot more.

“One of my predecessors used to have people torn apart by wild tortoises. It was not a quick death. He thought it was a hoot. Forgive me if my pleasures are a little more cerebral, will you?

“Oh yeah, talk! You like talkin’, you do! You got a magic tongue, you have! I sheen you! You flap it about and you’re the golden boy! You tell ’em you’re goin’ to rob them and they laugh! How d’you get away with that, eh?”

You are holding the leash, sir. In front of him, and backing nervously into a corner, are a group of very fat cats. They are wearing top hats, sir.” “As cats do, yes.” Vetinari nodded.

keep hearing that while I was away you did all kinds of risky things. Is that true?” “I like to flirt with risk. It’s always been part of my life.” “But you don’t do that kind of stuff while I’m around,” said Adora Belle. “So I’m enough of a thrill, am I?” She advanced. The heels helped, of course, but Spike could move like a snake trying to sashay, and the severe, tight, and ostensibly modest dresses she wore left everything to the imagination, which is much more inflammatory than leaving nothing. Speculation is always more interesting than facts.