Granny Weatherwax, who had walked nightly without fear in the bandit-haunted forests of the mountains all her life in the certain knowledge that the darkness held nothing more terrible than she was.

Last night there seemed to be a chance. Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings.

The pen is mightier than the sword ... if the sword is very short, and the pen is very sharp.

The sun is simple. A sword is simple. A storm is simple. Behind everything simple is a huge tail of complicated.

Sometimes words need music too. Sometimes the descriptions are not enough. Books should be written with soundtracks, like films.

There is a soak-the-rich attitude in the air, a feeling that if you have a lot of money you must have got it by some ghastly means. I can quite happily say there was never any family money. All the money we got was mine, just from writing books.

The thing is, I mean, there’s times when you look at the universe and you think, “What about me?” and you can just hear the universe replying, “Well, what about you?”