Well, it would have to be “The Man Who Was Thursday.” It’s a damn good read that I believe should be read by everyone in politics.

You'll see! We're going to the palace. Fetch Angua. We might need her. And bring the search warrant. You mean the sledgehammer, sir? Yes.

The landscape was snow and green ice on broken mountains. These weren't old mountains, worn down by time and weather and full of gentle ski slopes, but young, sulky, adolescent mountains. They held secret ravines and merciless crevices. One yodel out of place would attract, not the jolly echo of a lonely goatherd, but fifty tons of express-delivery snow.

What’s this here,” he said suspiciously, “about us got to give you faggots?” Oh, we have to have them,” said Newt, “We burn them.” Say what?” We burn them.” The guard’s face broadened into a grin. And they’d told him England was soft. “Right on!” he said

Ridcully was to management what King Herod was to the Bethlehem Playgroup Association.

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

Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world's greatest creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn't mean you let it trickle away. it meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.