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Terry Pratchett – Wyrd Sisters (1988)

There was something here, he thought, that nearly belonged to the gods. Humans had built a world inside the world, which reflected it in pretty much the same way as a drop of water reflects the landscape. And yet…and yet…

Inside this little world they had taken pains to put all the things you might think they would want to escape from–hatred, fear, tyranny, and so forth. Death was intrigued. They thought they wanted to be taken out of themselves, and every art humans dreamt up took them further in. He was fascinated.

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Terry Pratchett – Wyrd Sisters (1988)

It was a rich and wonderful voice, with every diphthong gliding beautifully into place. It was a golden brown voice. If the Creator of the multiverse had a voice, it was a voice such as this. If it had a drawback, it was that it wasn’t a voice you could use, for example, for ordering coal. Coal ordered by this voice would become diamonds.

It apparently belonged to a large fat man who had been badly savaged by a mustache.

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Terry Pratchett – Wyrd Sisters (1988)

“I reckon,” she said slowly, “I reckon it’s all just pretendin’. Look, he’s still breathing.”

The rest of the audience, who by now had already decided that this commentary was all part of the play, stared as one man at the corpse. It blushed.

“And look at his boots, too,” said Nanny critically. “A real king’d be ashamed of boots like that.”

The corpse tried to shuffle its feet behind a cardboard bush.