Of course, like all the informal inhabitants of the University the roaches were a little unusual, but there was something particularly unpleasant about the sound of billions of very small feet hitting the stones in perfect time. Rincewind stepped gingerly over the marching column. The Librarian jumped it. The Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of crisps.

The shortest unit of time in the multiverse is the New York Second, defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.

These people were not only cheering, they were throwing flowers and hats. The hats were made of stone, but the thought was there.

A good plan isn't one where someone wins, it's where nobody thinks they've lost.

You can't trample infidels when you're a tortoise. I mean, all you could do is give them a meaningful look.

Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more.

Them as can do has to do for them as can't. And someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.