There have been times, lately, when I dearly wished that I could change the past. Well, I can’t, but I can change the present, so that when it becomes the past it will turn out to be a past worth having.

My character - and for that matter my worst habits - could only be described by someone else. You can't open a box with the crowbar inside it.

In the words of the philosopher Sceptum, the founder of my profession: am I going to get paid for this?

I don't think a baker reads an awful lot about bread.

When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth.

We are monkeys. We like to chatter. Chattering doesn't cost us anything.

And then there were cats, thought Dog. He'd surprised the huge ginger cat from next door and had attempted to reduce it to cowering jelly by means of the usual glowing stare and deep-throated growl, which had always worked on the damned in the past. This time they had earned him a whack on the nose that had made his eyes water. Cats, Dog considered, were clearly a lot tougher than lost souls. He was looking forward to a further cat experiment, which he planned would consist of jumping around and yapping excitedly at it. It was a long shot, but it just might work.