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

by Terry Pratchett

“What happened to it, then?” “It went.” “Went where?” “Where things go. Everything’s always rushing off.”

Something wonderful, if you took the long view, was about to happen. If you took the short or medium view, something horrible was about to happen. It’s like the difference between seeing a beautiful new star in the winter sky and actually being close to the supernova. It’s the difference between the beauty of morning dew on a cobweb and actually being a fly. It was something that wouldn’t normally have happened for thousands of years. It was about to happen now.

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.

“What do you want for breakfast?” said the old woman. “Not that it’ll make any difference, ’cos it’s porridge.”

Belief is one of the most powerful organic forces in the multiverse. It may not be able to move mountains, exactly. But it can create someone who can. People get exactly the wrong idea about belief. They think it works back to front. They think the sequence is, first object, then belief. In fact, it works the other way. Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiraling into a potter’s wheel. That’s how gods get created, for example. They clearly must be created by their own believers, because a brief résumé of the lives of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldn’t be divine. They tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your enemies. Belief creates other things.

“Undead yes—unperson no!” Reg said.

Now that the memory problem was solved, there was only the dyslexia to worry about.

“I think it’s always very important to see what’s really real and what isn’t, don’t you?”

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.

He was his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regrets.

WHAT IS IT . . . IN THE NIGHT . . . WHEN YOU SEE THINGS, BUT THEY ARE NOT THE REAL THINGS?

SUDDENLY KNOW THAT WE ARE GOING TO DIE. She watched him thoughtfully. “Well, so does everyone,” she said. “And that’s what you’ve been dreaming about, is it? Everyone feels like this sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I was you. The best thing to do is keep busy and act cheerful, I always say.” BUT WE WILL COME TO AN END!

YOU MEAN THAT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHEN YOU DIE IS WHAT YOU BELIEVE WILL HAPPEN? “It would be nice if that was the case, wouldn’t it?” she said brightly. BUT, YOU SEE, I KNOW WHAT I BELIEVE. I BELIEVE . . . NOTHING. “We are gloomy this morning, aren’t we?” said Miss Flitworth. “Best thing you could do right now is finish off that porridge. It’s good for you. They say it builds healthy bones.” Bill Door looked down at the bowl. CAN I HAVE SOME MORE?

Chickens are a lot more stupid than humans, and don’t have the sophisticated mental filters that prevent them seeing what is truly there. It knew where it was and who was looking at it.

PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE WHAT SOMETHING WAS, WHEREAS THIS IS WHAT I AM.

Bill Door couldn’t think of an answer to this because he didn’t know what it meant. It was one of those many flat statements humans made that were really just a disguise for something more subtle, which was often conveyed merely by the tone of voice or a look in the eyes, neither of which was being done by the child.

He could put off dreaming, but he couldn’t escape remembering. He stared at the darkness.

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, said Bill Door. TO TINKER WITH THE FATE OF ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD. Miss Flitworth looked at him as if he had gone mad. “What kind of garbage is that?” I MEAN THAT THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERYONE TO DIE.

The future flowed into the past, and there was a lot more past than there was future, but he was struck by the fact that what it flowed through all the time was now. He replaced it carefully. Death knew that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world. He knew this. The knowledge was built into him. To Bill Door, he realized, it was so much horse elbows. OH, DAMN, he said. And walked into the fire.

“I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.” IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

“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.

“Oh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, that’s what matters.”

I HAVE NEVER FELT ILL BEFORE. OR TIRED. “It’s all part of being alive.” HOW DO HUMANS STAND IT? “Well, fermented apple juice can help.”

NOW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE, he said. I HAD HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THEY MEANT.

SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A METAPHOR, AFTER ALL. “What she’s holding looks real enough.” JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.

I’VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.

Maybe life is something you acquire.

Windle shook his head sadly. Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of an insane mind.

There was never anything to be gained from observing what humans said to one another—language was just there to hide their thoughts.

No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.

THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.

“Anyway . . . death to all tyrants,” said Miss Flitworth.

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