Sometimes I feel that the world is made up of sensible people who know the plot and bloody idiots who don't.

Words are the litmus paper of the mind.

The intelligence of the creature known as a crowd, is the square root of the number of people in it.

And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.

London was not designed for cars. Come to that, it wasn't designed for people. It just sort of happened. This created problems, and the solutions that were implemented became the next problems, five or ten or a hundred years down the line.

There would be a price... But if you were worried about the price, then why were you in the shop?

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.