"It would seem that you have no useful skill or talent whatsoever," he said. "Have you thought of going into teaching?"
Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it's the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it's just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder.
"You're dead," he said. Keli waited. She couldn't think of any suitable reply. "I'm not" lacked a certain style, while "Is it serious?" seemed somehow too frivolous.
"You won't get away with this," said Cutwell. He thought for a bit and added, "Well, you will probably get away with it, but you'll feel bad about it on your deathbed and you'll wish --” He stopped talking.
Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it's the people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals.
'My granny says that dying is like going to sleep,' Mort added, a shade hopefully.
I WOULDN'T KNOW. I HAVE DONE NEITHER.
It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse.
He'd been wrong, there was a light at the other end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower.
There were temples, their doors wide open, filling the streets with the sounds of gongs, cymbals, and in the case of some of the more conservative fundamentalist religions, the brief screams of the victims.
Albert grunted. "Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?”
Mort thought for a moment.
"No," he said eventually, "what?"
There was silence.
Then Albert straightened up and said, "Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve 'em right."
He felt as if he'd been shipwrecked on the Titanic but in the nick of time had been rescued. By the Lusitania.
History has a habit of changing the people who think they are changing it.
