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

by Terry Pratchett

“They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”

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.

A voice inside, a voice which generally came to him only in the quiet hours of the night or, in the old days, half-way down a whiskey bottle, added: Given how we use them, maybe we’re scared because we know we deserve it . . .

The real world was far too real to leave neat little hints. It was full of too many things. It wasn’t by eliminating the impossible that you got at the truth, however improbable; it was by the much harder process of eliminating the possibilities.

There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell.

What is it I’m always telling you?” “Er . . . er . . . Never trust anybody, sir?” “No, not that.” “Er . . . er . . . Everyone’s guilty of something, sir?” “Not that, either.” “Er . . . er . . . Just because someone’s a member of an ethnic minority doesn’t mean they’re not a nasty small-minded little jerk, sir?” “N—When did I say that?” “Last week, sir. After we’d had that visit from the Campaign for Equal Heights, sir.” “Well, not that. I mean . . . I’m pretty sure I’m always saying something else that’s very relevant here. Something pithy about police work.”