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Time is a drug. Too much of it kills you.
The people who really run organizations are usually found several levels down, where it’s still possible to get things done.
“A devoutly read young man,” said Vorbis. “Er,” said Nhumrod, “no. He can’t read. Or write.” “Ah. A lazy boy.”
You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.
The man with the tray was looking dejected. “Tell you what,” he said. “Two bags of sugared dates for the price of one, how about it? And that’s cutting my own hand off.” The woman glanced at the tray. “Ere, there’s flies all over everything!” she said. “Currants, madam.” “Why’d they just fly away, then?” the woman demanded. The man looked down. Then he looked back up into her face. “A miracle!” he said, waving his hands dramatically. “The time of miracles is at hand!”
It is a popular fact that nine-tenths of the brain is not used and, like most popular facts, it is wrong.
Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
“What is your plan, young man?” “I haven’t got one,” said Brutha. “I just do things, one after the other.”
“There’s bones everywhere!” “Well? What did you expect? This is a desert! People die here! It’s a very popular occupation in this vicinity!”
“You can’t believe in Great A’Tuin,” he said. “Great A’Tuin exists. There’s no point in believing in things that exist.”
You can’t inspire people with facts. They need a cause. They need a symbol.”
Nice lad, he thought. Talked to himself a lot, but that was only to be expected. The desert took some people like that, didn’t it, Angus? Yes, said Angus.
The breath of God was ultimately the sweat of men.
“Look . . . listen . . . We died for lies, for centuries we died for lies.” He waved a hand towards the god. “Now we’ve got a truth to die for!” “No. Men should die for lies. But the truth is too precious to die for.”
