The universe danced towards life. Life was a remarkably common commodity. Anything sufficiently complicated seemed to get cut in for some, in the same way that anything massive enough got a generous helping of gravity. The universe had a definite tendency towards awareness. This suggested a certain subtle cruelty woven into the very fabric of space-time.

Perhaps the magic would last, perhaps it wouldn't. But then again, what does?

Taxation is just a sophisticated way of demanding money with menaces.

He sighed. It had come to this. He was a responsible authority, and people could use terms like "core values" at him with impunity.

Once you gave a thing a name, you gave it life.

They'd smash up the world if they thought it would make a pretty noise.

But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armorers had made a new gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armor. It was gilt by association.