Small Gods (Discworld, #13)

by Terry Pratchett

Time is a drug. Too much of it kills you.

Because knowledge was dangerous. If you knew, the inquisitions could wind it slowly out of you. So you made sure you didn’t know. This made conversation much easier during cell meetings, and impossible outside of them.

Life could be very simple, if you believed

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.

There were no lies here. All fancies fled away. That’s what happened in all deserts. It was just you, and what you believed. What have I always believed? That on the whole, and by and large, if a man lived properly, not according to what any priests said, but according to what seemed decent and honest inside, then it would, at the end, more or less, turn out all right.

“Listen,” said the tortoise, “I am what I am. I can’t help it if people think something else.”

The shepherd had a hundred sheep, and it might have been surprising that he was prepared to spend days searching for one sheep; in fact, it was because he was the kind of man prepared to spend days looking for a lost sheep that he had a hundred sheep.

Only a mile away from the shepherd and his flock was a goatherd and his herd. The merest accident of microgeography had meant that the first man to hear the voice of Om, and who gave Om his view of humans, was a shepherd and not a goatherd. They have quite different ways of looking at the world, and the whole of history might have been different. For sheep are stupid, and have to be driven. But goats are intelligent, and need to be led.

belief is where you find it.

you spend your whole time thinking about the universe, you tend to forget the less important bits of it. Like your pants.

Om was still on the table, staring fixedly at the melon. “I nearly committed a terrible sin,” said Brutha. “I nearly ate fruit on a fruitless day.” “That’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing,” said Om. “Now cut the melon.” “But it is forbidden!” said Brutha. “No it’s not,” said Om. “Cut the melon.” “But it was the eating of fruit that caused passion to invade the world,” said Brutha. “All it caused was flatulence,” said Om. “Cut the melon!” “You’re tempting me!” “No I’m not. I’m giving you permission. Special dispensation! Cut the damn melon!” “Only a bishop or higher is allowed to giv—” Brutha began. And then he stopped. Om glared at him. “Yes. Exactly,” he said. “And now cut the melon.” His tone softened a bit. “If it makes you feel any better, I shall declare that it is bread. I happen to be the God in this immediate vicinity. I can call it what I damn well like. It’s bread. Right? Now cut the damn melon.” “Loaf,” corrected Brutha. “Right. And give me a slice without any seeds in it.” Brutha did so, a bit carefully. “And eat up quick,” said Om.

“That’s right,” he said. “We’re philosophers. We think, therefore we am.”

Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues. And wine made out of water! A mere quantum-mechanistic tunnel effect, that’d happen anyway if you were prepared to wait zillions of years. As if the turning of sunlight into wine, by means of vines and grapes and time and enzymes, wasn’t a thousand times more impressive and happened all the time . . .

His philosophy was a mixture of three famous schools—the Cynics, the Stoics, and the Epicureans—and summed up all three of them in his famous phrase, “You can’t trust any bugger further than you can throw him, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so let’s have a drink. Mine’s a double, if you’re buying. Thank you. And a packet of nuts. Her left bosom is nearly uncovered, eh? Two more packets, then!”

When you’ve got ’em by the curiosity, their hearts and minds will follow.”

“You mean you don’t know it’s true?” said Brutha. “I think it might be,” said Didactylos. “I could be wrong. Not being certain is what being a philosopher is all about.” “Talk about gods,” said Om. “Gods,” said Brutha weakly. His mind was on fire. These people made all these books about things, and they weren’t sure. But he’d been sure, and Brother Nhumrod had been sure, and Deacon Vorbis had a sureness you could bend horseshoes around. Sureness was a rock. Now he knew why, when Vorbis spoke about Ephebe, his face was gray with hatred and his voice was tense as a wire. If there was no truth, what was there left? And these bumbling old men spent their time kicking away the pillars of the world, and they’d nothing to replace them with but uncertainty. And they were proud of this?

“I know about sureness,” said Didactylos. Now the light, irascible tone had drained out of his voice. “I remember, before I was blind, I went to Omnia once. This was before the borders were closed, when you still let people travel. And in your Citadel I saw a crowd stoning a man to death in a pit. Ever seen that?” “It has to be done,” Brutha mumbled. “So the soul can be shriven and—” “Don’t know about the soul. Never been that kind of a philosopher,” said Didactylos. “All I know is, it was a horrible sight.” “The state of the body is not—” “Oh, I’m not talking about the poor bugger in the pit,” said the philosopher. “I’m talking about the people throwing the stones. They were sure all right. They were sure it wasn’t them in the pit. You could see it in their faces. So glad it wasn’t them that they were throwing just as hard as they could.”

People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure.”

‘Around the Godde there forms a Shelle of prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priestes and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies. Ande this maye notte be noticed.’”

Certainty, Brutha thought. I used to be certain. Now I’m not so sure.

“And so it is with truth,” said Vorbis. “There are some things which appear to be the truth, which have all the hallmarks of truth, but which are not the real truth. The real truth must sometimes be protected by a labyrinth of lies.”

Simony’s eyes gleamed with the gleam of a man who had seen the future and found it covered with armor plating.

YOU HAVE THE WHEEL. “But—but where are we going?” WHO KNOWS? The captain gripped the spokes helplessly. “But . . . there’s no stars that I recognize! No charts! What are the winds here? Where are the currents?” Death shrugged. The captain turned the wheel aimlessly. The ship glided on through the ghost of a sea. Then he brightened up. The worst had already happened. It was amazing how good it felt to know that. And if the worst had already happened . . .

You gave a god its shape, like a jelly fills a mold. Gods often became your father, said Abraxas the Agnostic. Gods became a big beard in the sky, because when you were three years old that was your father.

“There’s two million people in the empire,” said Brutha. “Yeah. Pretty good, eh? Started off with nothing but a shepherd hearing voices in his head, ended up with two million people.” “But you never did anything with them,” said Brutha. “Like what?” “Well . . . tell them not to kill one another, that sort of thing . . .”

“Have you ever heard,” he said, “of Ethics?” “Somewhere in Howondaland, isn’t it?” “The Ephebians were very interested in it.” “Probably thinking about invading.” “They seemed to think about it a lot.” “Long-term strategy, maybe.” “I don’t think it’s a place, though. It’s more to do with how people live.” “What, lolling around all day while slaves do the real work? Take it from me, whenever you see a bunch of buggers puttering around talking about truth and beauty and the best way of attacking Ethics, you can bet your sandals it’s because dozens of other poor buggers are doing all the real work around the place while those fellows are living like—” “—gods?” said Brutha. There was a terrible silence. “I was going to say kings,” said Om, reproachfully. “They sound a bit like gods.” “Kings,” said Om emphatically. “Why do people need gods?” Brutha persisted. “Oh, you’ve got to have gods,” said Om, in a hearty, no-nonsense voice. “But it’s gods that need people,” said Brutha. “To do the believing. You said.” Om hesitated. “Well, okay,” he said. “But people have got to believe in something. Yes? I mean, why else does it thunder?” “Thunder,” said Brutha, his eyes glazing slightly, “I don’t— “—is caused by clouds banging together; after the lightning stroke, there is a hole in the air, and thus the sound is engendered by the clouds rushing to fill the hole and colliding, in accordance with strict cumulodynamic principles.” “Your voice goes funny when you’re quoting,” said Om. “Wha...

“You know, I never meant for people to believe in the Turtle,” said Didactylos unhappily. “It’s just a big turtle. It just exists. Things just happen that way. I don’t think the Turtle gives a damn. I just thought it might be a good idea to write things down and explain things a bit.”

Do unto others before they do unto you.”

Being a small god was bad, except at the time you hardly knew that it was bad because you only barely knew anything at all, but all the time there was something which was just possibly the germ of hope, the knowledge and belief that one day you might be more than you were now. But how much worse to have been a god, and to now be no more than a smoky bundle of memories, blown back and forth across the sand made from the crumbled stones of your temples . . .

You can’t inspire people with facts. They need a cause. They need a symbol.”

“I assure you the job does not require much intelligence,” said Vorbis. “If it did, bishops would not be able to do it.”

I’m on everyone’s side. It’d be nice if, just for once, someone was on mine.

Bishops move diagonally. That’s why they often turn up where the kings don’t expect them to be.

Killing the creator was a traditional method of patent-protection.

When you have their full attention in your grip, their hearts and minds will follow.

“Look, Brutha’s going to die anyway. But this way it’ll mean something. People don’t understand, really understand, about the shape of the universe and all that stuff, but they’ll remember what Vorbis did to a man. Right? We can make Brutha’s death a symbol for people, don’t you see?”

Here people were about to roast someone to death, but they’d left his loin-cloth on, out of respectability. You had to laugh. Otherwise you’d go mad.

It will all happen again. It’s happened before. It happens all the time. That’s why gods die. They never believe in people. But you have a chance. All you need to do is . . . believe.”

XVII. You Can’t Use Weakness As A Weapon. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Don’t think you can get around me by existing!”

You can die for your country or your people or your family, but for a god you should live fully and busily, every day of a long life.”

“You’ve come to wage war on Omnia. This would not be a good idea.” “From Omnia’s point of view, yes.” “From everyone’s. You will probably defeat us. But not all of us. And then what will you do? Leave a garrison? Forever? And eventually a new generation will retaliate. Why you did this won’t mean anything to them. You’ll be the oppressors. They’ll fight. They might even win. And there’ll be another war. And one day people will say: why didn’t they sort it all out, back then? On the beach. Before it all started. Before all those people died. Now we have that chance. Aren’t we lucky?”

This Is Religion, Boy. Not Comparison Bloody Shopping! You Shall Not Subject Your God To Market Forces!

“I see,” he said. “Keep us talking while your soldiers got into position, eh?” “No! I didn’t want that!” Borvorius’s eyes narrowed. He had not survived the many wars of his life by being a stupid man. “No,” he said, “maybe you didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Listen to me, my innocent little priest. Sometimes there has to be a war. Things go too far for words. There’s . . . other forces. Now . . . go back to your people. Maybe we’ll both be alive when all this is over and then we can talk. Fight first, talk after. That’s how it works, boy. That’s history. Now, go back.” Brutha turned away.

“We get the gods we deserve,” said Brutha, “and I think we don’t deserve any. Stupid. Stupid. The sanest man I’ve met this year lives up a pole in the desert. Stupid. I think I ought to join him.”

“Well, the way I see it, logic is only a way of being ignorant by numbers.”