The rising sun managed to peek around the vast column of smoke that forever rose from Ankh-Morpork, City of Cities, illustrating almost up to the edge of space that smoke means progress or, at least, people setting fire to things.

What can the harvest hope for, if not for the care of the Reaper Man?

Granddad was superstitious about books. He thought that if you had enough of them around, education leaked out, like radioactivity.

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

Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards because a refusal often offends, I read somewhere.

…We were born vampires." "I thought you became –" "— vampires by being bitten? Dear me, no. Oh, we can turn people into vampires, it’s an easy technique, but what would be the point? When you eat… now what is it you eat? Oh yes, chocolate… you don’t want to turn it into another Agnes Nitt, do you? Less chocolate to go around." He sighed. "Oh dear, superstition, superstition everywhere we turn.

Many an ancient lord's last words have been, 'You can't kill me because I've got magic aaargh.'