It was quite impossible to describe. Here is what it looked like. It looked like a piano sounds shortly after being dropped down a well. It tasted yellow, and it felt Paisley. It smelled like the total eclipse of the moon.

Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad.

The world is a globe — the farther you sail, the closer to home you are.

First draft: let it run. Turn all the knobs up to 11. Second draft: hell. Cut it down and cut it into shape. Third draft: comb its nose and blow its hair. I usually find that most of the book will have handed itself to me on that first draft.

People's whole lives do pass in front of their eye before they die. The process is called "Living".

The thief, as will become apparent, was a special type of thief. This thief was an artist of theft. Other thieves merely stole everything that was not nailed down, but this thief stole the nails as well.

I don't think about the end game. I've got lots to occupy my mind. It's the rage that keeps me going.