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.
This is Art holding a Mirror up to Life. That’s why everything is exactly the wrong way around.
Oh, he might burn down the odd cottage every now and again, in a sort of absent-minded way, but only when he was really angry about something, and he could give it up any time he liked.
“I’d like to know if I could compare you to a summer’s day. Because–well, June 12th was quite nice, and… Oh. You’ve gone…”
The road, Hwel felt, had to go somewhere.
This geographical fiction has been the death of many people. Roads don’t necessarily have to go anywhere, they just have to start somewhere.
Granny Weatherwax was not lost. She wasn’t the kind of person who ever became lost. It was just that, at the moment, while she knew exactly where SHE was, she didn’t know the position of anywhere else.
Demons were like genies or philosophy professors–if you didn’t word things exactly right, they delighted in giving you absolutely accurate and completely misleading answers.
A year went past. The days followed one another patiently. Right back at the beginning of the multiverse they had tried all passing at the same time, and it hadn’t worked.
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.
“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.