Little fussy Otto, in his red-lined black opera cloak with pockets for all his gear, his shiny black shoes, his carefully cut widow's peak and, not least, his ridiculous accent that grew thicker or thinner depending on who he was talking to, did not look like a threat. He looked funny, a joke, a music-hall vampire. It had never previously occurred to Vimes that, just possibly, the joke was on other people.

Journalism makes you think fast. You have to speak to people in all walks of life. Especially local journalism.

Every intelligent being, whether it breathes or not, coughs nervously at some time in its life.

It is a mistake trying to cheer up camels. You may as well drop meringues into a black hole.

You get a wonderful view from the point of no return.

A world like that, which exists only because the gods enjoy a joke, must be a place where magic can survive. And sex too, of course.

If per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.