Reaper Man (Discworld, #11; Death, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any.

Most species do their own evolving, making it up as they go along, which is the way Nature intended. And this is all very natural and organic and in tune with mysterious cycles of the cosmos, which believes that there’s nothing like millions of years of really frustrating trial and error to give a species moral fiber and, in some cases, backbone.

The conversation took seventeen years, but has been speeded up.

in a general sort of way everyone knew they were going to die, even the common people. No one knew where you were before you were born, but when you were born, it wasn’t long before you found you’d arrived with your return ticket already punched.

Everyday took an age to go by, which was odd, because days plural went past like a stampede.

It was one of the new-fangled pocket watches, with hands. They pointed to a quarter past nine. He shook it. A small hatch opened under the 12 and a very small demon poked its head out and said, “Knock it off, guv’nor, I’m pedalling as fast as I can.”

It began to dawn on Windle that the human body is not run by the brain, despite the brain’s opinion on the matter. In fact it’s run by dozens of complex automatic systems, all whirring and clicking away with the kind of precision that isn’t noticed until it breaks down.

Intellectually, Ridcully maintained his position for two reasons. One was that he never, ever, changed his mind about anything. The other was that it took him several minutes to understand any new idea put to him, and this is a very valuable trait in a leader, because anything anyone is still trying to explain to you after two minutes is probably important and anything they give up after a mere minute or so is almost certainly something they shouldn’t have been bothering you with in the first place.

Everything that exists, yearns to live. That’s what the cycle of life is all about. That’s the engine that drives the great biological pumps of evolution. Everything tries to inch its way up the tree, clawing or tentacling or sliming its way up to the next niche until it gets to the very top—which, on the whole, never seems to have been worth all that effort.

The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn’t put a tax on knowledge. The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, de-capita could be arranged. The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil authority. The Patrician said he was not proposing to remain civil for long.

“You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re rich.”

“Doing it without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a bath.” “That’s what I do,” said Ridcully.

Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward? How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive? Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at things, provided you were bad enough to be funny.

In seventy-five years she had dealt with wars, famine, innumerable sick animals, a couple of epidemics and thousands of tiny, everyday tragedies. A depressed skeleton wasn’t even in the top ten Worst Things she had seen.

He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse, because at least death didn’t happen to you every year.

“The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know. In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ’em into the pond.” BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH. “Yeah, but it was fun watching ’em find out.

Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled. “That’s right,” said Mrs. Cake. “Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?” “About ten seconds usually, Mr. Poons.” Windle hesitated. “You gotta ask the question,” said Mrs. Cake quickly. “I gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I’ve already foreseen ’em and answered ’em.” “How far into the future can you see, Mrs. Cake?” She nodded.

“It can’t be intelligent, can it?” said the Bursar. “All it’s doing is moving around slowly and eating things,” said the Dean. “Put a pointy hat on it and it’d be a faculty member,” said the Archchancellor.

“Yo!” said the Dean. “Yo what?” said Ridcully. “It’s not a yo what, it’s just a yo,” said the Senior Wrangler, behind him. “It’s a general street greeting and affirmative with convivial military ingroup and masculine bonding-ritual overtones.” “What? What? Like ‘jolly good’?” said Ridcully. “I suppose so,” said the Senior Wrangler, reluctantly.

“Not many people become ghosts,” said Mrs. Cake. “To be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.” or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket. “Will you hark at him,” said Mrs. Cake. I wanted to stay in the spirit world, or even wine and beer, hngh. hngh. hngh.

The Librarian landed on his shoulders. To the orangutan’s surprise, this made very little difference. A 300-pound orangutan usually had a noticeable effect on a person’s rate of progress, but Windle wore him like a collar. “I think we need Ancient History,” he said. “I wonder, could you stop trying to twist my head off?”

“Olé,” said Windle. “Oook?” “No, Not ‘with milk’,” said Windle.

JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.

Being dead wasn’t like falling asleep after all. It was like waking up.

What’s the good of having mastery over cosmic balance and knowing the secrets of fate if you can’t blow something up?

In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.

Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.

LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?

Windle wasn’t really listening. “I’ve met people I never even knew existed. I’ve done all sorts of things. I’ve really got to know who Windle Poons is.” WHO IS HE, THEN? “Windle Poons.” I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK.

I AM ALWAYS ALONE. BUT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF.