Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it's the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it's just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let's just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colourful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.

One day a tortoise will learn how to fly.

If you had enough money, you could hardly commit crimes at all. You just perpetrated amusing little peccadilloes.

This wasn't food - it was what food became if it had been good and gone to food heaven.

The figures looked more or less human. And they were engaged in religion. You could tell by the knives (it's not murder if you do it for a god).

Life is a trick, and you get one chance to learn it.

Legends don't have to make sense. They just have to be beautiful. Or at least interesting.