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

by Terry Pratchett

LAST NIGHT THIS WAS PUSHED UNDER THE DOOR. Death opened his hand to reveal a small grubby piece of paper, on which Miss Flitworth could read, with some difficulty, the word: OOoooEEEeeOOOoooEEeeeOOOoooEEeee. I HAVE RECEIVED THE BADLY-WRITTEN NOTE OF THE BANSHEE

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

“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.

The Dean himself didn’t know when he’d been happier. For sixty years he’d been obeying all the self-regulating rules of wizardry, and suddenly he was having the time of his life. He’d never realized that, deep down inside, what he really wanted to do was make things go splat.

“I shouldn’t think it’s more than a quarter past eleven.” THEN WE HAVE THREE-QUARTERS OF AN HOUR. “How can you be sure?” BECAUSE OF DRAMA, MISS FLITWORTH. THE KIND OF DEATH WHO POSES AGAINST THE SKYLINE AND GETS LIT UP BY LIGHTNING FLASHES, said Bill Door, disapprovingly, DOESN’T TURN UP AT FIVE-AND-TWENTY PAST ELEVEN IF HE CAN POSSIBLY TURN UP AT MIDNIGHT.

“That’s not fair, you know. If we knew when we were going to die, people would lead better lives.” IF PEOPLE KNEW WHEN THEY WERE GOING TO DIE, I THINK THEY PROBABLY WOULDN’T LIVE AT ALL.

Bill Door stepped back, turned around, and ran for it. It was, as he was wonderfully well placed to know, merely putting off the inevitable. But wasn’t that what living was all about?

the first thing the truly wise man works out is that sitting around on mountaintops gives you not only hemorrhoids but frostbitten hemorrhoids.

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.