Feet of Clay (Discworld, #19; City Watch, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

When a human doctor, after much bleeding and cupping, finds that a patient has died out of sheer desperation, he can always say, “Dear me, will of the gods, that will be thirty dollars please,” and walk away a free man. This is because human beings are not, technically, worth anything. A good racehorse, on the other hand, may be worth twenty thousand dollars. A doctor who lets one hurry off too soon to that great big paddock in the sky may well expect to hear, out of some dark alley, a voice saying something on the lines of “Mr. Chrysoprase is very upset,” and find the brief remainder of his life full of incident.

And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.

He sidled into places and pinched things that weren’t worth much. If only he’d sidled into continents and stolen entire cities, slaughtering many of the inhabitants in the process, he’d have been a pillar of the community.

When you’ve made up your mind to shout out who you are to the world, it’s a relief to know that you can do it in a whisper.

“Seems like a perfectly ordinary female to me,” said Angua. “Female? He told you he was female?” “She,” Angua corrected. “This is Ankh-Morpork, you know. We’ve got extra pronouns here.”

WORDS IN THE HEART CAN NOT BE TAKEN.

“I Smashed The Treadmill But The Golems Repaired It. Why? And I Let The Animals Go But They Just Milled Around Stupidly. Some Of Them Even Went Back To The Slaughter Pens. Why?” “Welcome to the world, Constable Dorfl.” “Is It Frightening To Be Free?” “You said it.” “You Say To People ‘Throw Off Your Chains’ And They Make New Chains For Themselves?” “Seems to be a major human activity, yes.”