All was black, gloomy and awful. There was no light at the end of the tunnel - or if there was, it was an oncoming train.

Words are the litmus paper of the mind.

You never knew about people, like you never knew how deep a pond was because all you saw was the top.

Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making light bulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

Do you know how wizards like to be buried?" "Yes!" "Well, how?" Granny Weatherwax paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Reluctantly.

Ye ken, we've been robbin' and running aroound on all kinds o' worlds for a lang time, and I'll tell ye this: The universe is a lot more comp-li-cated than it looks from the ooutside.

All the higher life forms scythed away, just like that. [ . . . ] Nothing but dust and fundamentalists.