Small Gods (Discworld, #13)

by Terry Pratchett

Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.

When the least they could do to you was everything, then the most they could do to you suddenly held no terror. If he was going to be boiled for a lamb, then he might as well be roasted for a sheep.

Gods didn’t mind atheists, if they were deep, hot, fiery atheists like Simony, who spend their whole life not believing, spend their whole life hating gods for not existing. That sort of atheism was a rock. It was nearly belief . . .

That was the thing about deserts. They had their own gravity. They sucked you into the center.

“Just because you can explain it doesn’t mean it’s not still a miracle.”

“Anyway, there isn’t anything else I can do. I couldn’t just leave him.” “Yes you could,” said Om. “To die in the desert?” “Yes. It’s easy. Much easier than not leaving him to die in the desert.” “No.” “This is how they do things in Ethics, is it?” said Om sarcastically. “I don’t know. It’s how I’m doing it.”