He sighed. It had come to this. He was a responsible authority, and people could use terms like "core values" at him with impunity.

WHERE'S MY COW? ARE YOU MY COW?

Rincewind could scream for mercy in nineteen languages, and just scream in another forty-four.

Quit while you're a head, that's what I say.

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.

Time was something that largely happened to other people; he viewed it in the same way that people on the shore viewed the sea. It was big and it was out there, and sometimes it was an invigorating thing to dip a toe into, but you couldn't live in it all the time. Besides, it always made his skin wrinkle.

You haven't really been anywhere until you've got back home.