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(Page prepared by Strange de Jim.)


Although Granny Weatherwax was aware that somewhere under her complicated strata of vests and petticoats there was some skin, that didn't mean she approved of it.

"No one could say I'm the sort to take offense at criticism," declared Granny Weatherwax.
"Not twice, anyway," said Nanny Ogg.

Cat singing consists of standing two inches in front of other cats and screaming at them until they give in.

Whenever I give someone a Terry Pratchett novel, the birthday person tends to read the whole series. Pratchett's novels, which are both hilarious and thought-provoking, have sold over 50,000,000 copies. The ones below are all about the Discworld, very much like Earth. Read any one, and you'll be hooked.

Here are the Discworld books in order, with a little of the blurbs (in italics) and a few quotes. They can be read in any order. My favorites are the witches. You might start with Wyrd Sisters.

The Color of Magic

On a world supported on the back of a giant turtle (sex unknown), a gleeful, explosive, wickedly eccentric expedition sets out. There's an avaricious but inept wizard [Rincewind], a naive tourist [Twoflower] whose luggage moves on hundreds of dear little legs, dragons who only exist if you believe in them, and of course The Edge of the Planet ... How it all began.

Tourist, Rincewind had decided, meant "idiot."

The Light Fantastic

As it moves toward a seemingly inevitable collision with a malevolent red star, the Discworld has only one possible savior. Unfortunately, this happens to be the singularly inept and cowardly wizard called Rincewind, who was last seen falling off the edge of the world ...

"Do you think there's anything to eat in this forest?"
"Yes," said the wizard bitterly, "us."

He moved in a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk.

Equal Rites

The last thing the wizard Drum Billet did, before Death laid a bony hand on his shoulder, was to pass on his staff of power to the eighth son of an eighth son. Unfortunately for his colleagues in the chauvinistic (not to say misogynistic) world of magic, he failed to check on the newborn's sex ...

Although Granny Weatherwax was aware that somewhere under her complicated strata of vests and petticoats there was some skin, that didn't mean she approved of it.


Death comes to us all. When he came to Mort, he offered him a job. After being assured that being dead was not compulsory, Mort accepted. However, he soon found out that romantic longings did not mix easily with the responsibilities of being Death's apprentice ...

Death was standing behind a lectern, poring over a map.
"No, sir," said Mort.
"Was there?"


There was an eighth son of an eighth son. He was, naturally, a wizard. And there it should have ended. However (for reasons we'd better not go into), he had seven sons. And then he had an eighth son ... a wizard squared ... a source of magic ... a Sourcerer.

"Children are our hope for the future."
"What does it contain, then?"
"Besides you, I mean!"
Death gave him a puzzled look. I'M SORRY?

Wyrd Sisters

Witches are not by nature gregarious, and they certainly don't have leaders. Granny Weatherwax was the most highly regarded of the leaders they didn't have. But even she found that meddling in royal politics was a lot more difficult than certain playwrights would have you believe ...

(The dwarf playwright Hwel is leaving actor-manager Vitoller's company.)
"I'll miss you, laddie, I don't mind telling you. You've been like a son to me. How old are you, exactly? I never did know."
"A hundred and two."
"You've been like a father to me, then," Vitoller said.


Being trained by the Assassins' Guild in Ankh-Morpork did not fit Teppic for the task assigned to him by fate. He inherited the throne of the desert kingdom of Djelibeybi rather earlier than he expected (his father wasn't too happy about it either), but that was only the beginning of his problems ...

"The old king told me once that the gods gave people a sense of humor to make up for giving them sex."

Guards! Guards!

This is where the dragons went. They lie ... not dead, not asleep, but ... dormant. And although the space they occupy isn't like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly. And presumably, somewhere there's a key ...

It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune, or sell hot dogs to the rest


Eric is the Discworld's demonology hacker. Pity he's not very good at it. All he wants is his three wishes granted. But instead of a tractable demon, he calls up Rincewind, probably the most incompetent wizard in the universe ...

Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn't that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache.

Moving Pictures

The alchemists of the Discworld have discovered the magic of the silver screen. But what is the dark secret of Holy Wood hill?
It's up to Victor Tugelbend ("Can't sing. Can't dance. Can handle a sword a little") and Theda Withel ("I come from a little town you've probably never heard of") to find out ...

Inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.

All dwarfs have beards and wear many layers of clothing. Their courtships are largely concerned with finding out, in delicate and circumspect ways, what sex the other dwarf is.

Reaper Man

Death is missing—presumed ... er ... gone.
Which leads to the kind of chaos you always get when an important public service is withdrawn.
Meanwhile, on a little farm, far, far away, a tall dark stranger is turning out to be really good with a scythe. There's a harvest to be gathered in ...

Not a muscle moved on Death's face, because he hadn't got any.

"If anyone's going to bury a wizard at a crossroads with a stake hammered through him, then wizards ought to do it. After all, we're his friends."

The Patrician said it was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.

The ability of skinny old ladies to carry huge loads is phenomenal. Studies have shown that an ant can carry one hundred times its own weight, but there is no known limit to the lifting power of the average tiny eighty-year-old Spanish peasant grandmother.

Witches Abroad

It seemed an easy job. After all, how difficult could it be to make sure that a servant girl doesn't marry a prince?
But for the witches Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, and Magrat Garlick, traveling to the distant city of Genua, things are never that simple ...
Servant girls have to marry the Prince. That's what life is all about. You can't fight a Happy Ending.
At least up until now ...

She had buried three husbands, and at least two of them had already been dead.

For example, there's the dancing around naked. In the average temperate climate there are very few nights when anyone would dance around at midnight with no clothes on, quite apart from the question of stones, thistles, and sudden hedgehogs.

Ferocious dogs would whine and hide under the stairs when [Nanny's cat] Grebo sauntered down the street. Foxes kept away from the village. Wolves made a detour.
"He's an old softie, really," said Nanny.

"When did you last have a bath, Esme?"
"What do you mean, last? Baths is unhygienic," Granny declared. "You know I've never agreed with baths. Sittin' around in your own dirt like that."
"What do you do, then?" said Magrat.
"I just washes," said Granny. "All the bits. You know. As and when they becomes available."

"No one could say I'm the sort to take offense at criticism," declared Granny Weatherwax.
"Not twice, anyway," said Nanny.

"Look at the three of you," Lily said. "The maiden, the mother, and the crone."
"Who are you calling a maiden?" said Nanny Ogg.
"Who are you calling a mother?" said Magrat.
Granny Weatherwax glowered briefly like the person who has discovered that there is only one straw left and everyone else has drawn a long one.

[On how he got into the military when he was too short.] "I lied about my height, Mrs. Ogg."

Small Gods

In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was: "Hey, you!"
For Brutha the novice is the Chosen One. He wants peace and justice and brotherly love.
He also wants the Inquisition to stop torturing him now, please ...

"But you ... you're omnicognizant," said Brutha.
"That doesn't mean I know everything."
Brutha bit his lip. "Um. Yes. It does."

If you spend your whole time thinking about the universe, you tend to forget the less important bits of it. Like your pants.

I said, "There is no royal road to learning, sire." And he said to me, "Bloody well build one or I shall have your legs chopped off. Use as many slaves as you like." A refreshingly direct approach, I always thought. Not a man to mince words. People, yes. But not words.

Lords and Ladies

The Fairies are back—but this time they don't just want your teeth ...
Granny Weatherwax and her tiny coven are up against real elves.
It's Midsummer Night.
No time for dreaming ...
With full supporting cast of dwarfs, wizards, trolls, Morris dancers, and one orang-utan. And lots of hey-nonny-nonny and blood all over the place.

Nanny Ogg never did any housework herself, but she was the cause of housework in other people.

Magrat normally wore a simple dress with not much underneath it except Magrat.

"What with your mum being dead and you having no female relatives and everything ...
Magrat still looked puzzled.
"After the wedding, is what I'm hinting about," said Nanny.
"Oh, that. No, most of that's being done by the caterer."

"That's the thing about witchcraft," she said. "It doesn't exactly keep you young, but you do stay old for longer."

Men at Arms

Be a MAN in the City Watch! The City Watch needs MEN!"
But what it got includes Corporal Carrot (technically a dwarf), Lance-Constable Detritus (a troll), Lance-Corporal Aqua (a woman ... most of the time), and Corporal Nobbs (disqualified from the human race for shoving).
And they need all the help they can get. Because they've only got twenty-four hours to clean up the town and this is Ankh-Morpork we're talking about.

Sybil Ramkin lived in the kind of poverty that was only available to the very rich, a poverty approached from the other side.

Dwarfs make a living by smashing up rocks with valuable minerals in them, and the silicon-based lifeform known as trolls are, basically, rocks with valuable minerals in them.

Carrot was not stupid. He was direct, and honest, and good-natured, and honorable in all his dealings. In Ankh-Morpork this would normally have added up to "stupid" ...

Foul Ole Ron was a Beggars' Guild member in good standing. He was a Mutterer, and a good one. He would walk behind people muttering in his own private language until they gave him money not to.

"You can really talk?" said Carrot.
Gaspode rolled his eyes.
"'Course not," he said.

Soul Music

Susan is Death's granddaughter who has to face the new and addictive music that has entered the Discworld.
It's lawless. It changes people.
It's called Music With Rocks In.
It's got a beat and you can dance to it, but ...
It's alive.
And it won't fade away.

The raven had grown up in the forever-crumbling, ivy-clad Tower of Art, overlooking the Unseen University in far Ankh-Morpork ...
The wizard who thought he owned him called him Quoth.

Curry with Vegetable 8p
Curry with Meat 10p
Curry with Named Meat 15p

Susan looked at the mess sizzling in the huge frying pan. It wasn't a sight to be seen on an empty stomach, although it could probably cause one. Albert could make an egg with it had never been laid.

Ridcully breathed heavily. "When your boots change by themselves—" he growled.
"There's magic afoot?"

Interesting Times

Mighty battles! Revolution! Death! War! (and his sons Terror and Panic, and daughter Clancy). War (and Clancy) are spreading throughout the ancient cities.
And all that stands in the way of terrible doom for everyone is:
Rincewind the Wizard, Cohen the barbarian hero, five foot tall in his surgical sandals, who has a lifetime's experience of not dying ... and a very special butterfly.

... ladies of negotiable virtue

And he kept his money in a small leather shovel purse, and counted it out very thoroughly whenever he made a purchase, especially if there was a queue behind him.

Three Pink Pig and Five White Fang were, loosely speaking, privates, and not just because they were pale, vulnerable, and inclined to curl up and hide when danger threatened.


The Opera House, Ankh-Morpork
Yes, Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, the Discworld's greatest witches, are back for an innocent night out at the opera.
So there's going to be trouble (but nevertheless a good evening's entertainment with murders you can really hum ...)

"It's too drafty on broomsticks this time of year, Esme. The breeze gets into places I wouldn't dream of talking about."
"Really? Can't imagine where those'd be, then."

Feet of Clay

There's a werewolf with Pre-Lunar Tension in Ankh-Morpork. And a dwarf with attitude and a golem who's begun to think for itself.
But for Commander Vimes, Head of Ankh-Morpork City Watch, that's only the start.

She kept telling herself she had it [being a werewolf] under control, and she did, in a way. She prowled the city on moonlit nights and, okay, there was the occasional chicken, but she always remembered where she'd been and went round next day to shove some money under the door.
It was hard to be a vegetarian who had to pick bits of meat out of her teeth in the morning.
It was easy to be a vegetarian by day. It was preventing yourself from becoming a humanitarian at night that took the real effort.


It's the night before Hogwatch. And it's too quiet.
Where is the big jolly fat man? Why is Death creeping down chimneys and trying to say Ho Ho Ho? The darkest night of the year is getting a lot darker.

The members of the Guild of Assassins considered themselves cultured men who enjoyed good music and food and literature. And they knew the value of human life. To a penny, in some cases.

There was no start to his talents.

"Oh, the sulks," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Not a proper Hogswatch without everyone sitting staring at different walls."


Discworld goes to war, with armies of sardines, warriors, fishermen, squid, and a least one very camp follower.
As two armies march, Commander Vimes of Ankh-Morpork City Watch faces unpleasant foes who are out to get him ... and that's just the people on his side. The enemy might be even worse.
Jingo makes the World Cup look like a friendly five-a-side.

"Gentlemen, please," said the Patrician. "Let's have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war."

An ability to get out of their depth on a wet pavement.

It did not take long for people to see the rather obvious flaw in paying a group of people by the number of fires they put out. The penny really dropped shortly after Charcoal Tuesday.

Another little memory burst open as silently as a mouse passing wind in a hurricane.

The Last Continent

It's the Discworld's last continent and it's going to die in a few days, except ...
Who is this hero striding across the red desert? Sheep shearer, beer drinker, bush ranger, and someone who'll even eat a Meat Pie Floater when he's sober.
A man in a hat whose Luggage follows him on little legs. Yes, it's Rincewind, the inept wizard who can't even spell "wizard." He's the only hero left.
Still ... no worries, eh?

Ridcully felt that there was indeed room at the top, and he was occupying all of it.

Carpe Jugulum

Mightily Oats has not picked a good time to be a priest. He thought he'd come to Lancre for a simple ceremony. Now he's caught up in a war between vampires and witches.
There's Young Agnes, who is really in two minds about everything. Magrat, who is trying to combine witchcraft and nappies. Nanny Ogg ... and Granny Weatherwax, who is big trouble.
And the vampires are intelligent. They've got style and fancy waistcoats. They're out of the casket, and want a bite of the future. Mightily Oaks knows he has a prayer, but he wishes he had an ax.

There was more to Mr. Oats than met the eye. There had to be.

The Fifth Elephant

Sam Vines is a man on the run. There are werewolves on his trail. They're bright. They're fast. They're werewolves—and they're catching up.
Starring dwarfs, diplomats, intrigue, and big lumps of fat.

"I believe you were an alcoholic, Sir Samuel."
"No," said Vimes. "I was a drunk. You have to be richer than I was to be an alcoholic."

The Truth

William de Worde is the accidental editor of the Discworld's first newspaper. Now he must cope with the traditional perils of a journalist's life—people who want him dead, a recovering vampire with a suicidal fascination for flash photography, some more people who want him dead in a different way, and, worst of all, the man who keeps begging him to publish pictures of his humorously shaped potatoes.

Dibbler was an extremely good hot sausage salesman. He had to be, given the nature of his sausages.

Hugglestones was a boarding school so bleak and spartan that only the upper classes would dream of sending their sons there.

William wondered why he always disliked people who said "no offense meant." Maybe it was because they found it easier to say "no offense meant" than actually refrain from giving offense.

The curry was particularly strange since Mrs. Arcanum considered foreign parts only marginally less unspeakable than private parts and therefore added the curious yellow curry powder with a very small spoon, lest everyone should suddenly tear their clothes off and do foreign things.

Thief of Time

The construction of the world's first truly accurate clock starts a race against, well, time for Lu-Tze and his apprentice Lobsan Ludd. Because it will stop time. And that will only be the start of everyone's problems.
Complete with a full supporting cast of heroes and villains, yetis, martial artists, and Ronnie, the fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse (who left before they became famous).

He was definitely a boy with special needs. In the view of the staffroom, these began with an exorcism.

... and more idiosyncratic items like a spare pair of pants for Billy, who did his best.

"I thought all roads led away from Ankh-Morpork."

Lu-Tze had long considered that everything happens for a reason, except possibly football.

The Last Hero

Cohen the Barbarian is going on one final quest. He's going to climb the highest mountain in the Discworld and meet his gods. He doesn't like the way they let men grow old and die.

"We all get older, Harry. She runs a shop now. Pam's Pantry. Makes marmalade," said Cohen.
"What? She used to queen it on a throne on top of a pile of skulls!"
"I didn't say it was very good marmalade."

Night Watch

Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch had it all. But now he's back in his own rough, tough past without even the clothes he was standing up in when the lightning struck.
Living in the past is hard. Dying in the past is incredibly easy
He must track down a murderer, teach his younger self how to be a good copper and change the outcome of a bloody rebellion. There's a problem: if he wins, he's got no wife, no child, no future.

Privilege just means "private law." Two types of people laugh at the law: those that break it and those that make it.

They were honest, in that special policeman sense of the word. That is, they didn't steal things too heavy to carry.

They walked the streets, slowly, giving anyone dangerous enough time to saunter away or melt into the shadows, and then rang the bell to announce to a sleeping world, or at any rate a world that had been asleep, the fact that all was, despite appearances, well.

The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

Maurice, s scuffy tomcat with an eye for the main chance, has the perfect fiddle going. He has a stupid-looking kid for a piper, and he has his own plague of rats—rats who are strangely educated, so Maurice can no longer think of them as "lunch."
But someone in Bad Blintz is playing a different tune. A dark, shadow;y tune. Something very, very bad is waiting in the cellars. The rats must learn a new word.

Cat singing consists of standing two inches in front of other cats and screaming at them until they give in.

The second mouse gets the cheese.

Of course there are no cat gods. That would be too much like ... work.

"You! Did you just talk?"
"Would you feel better if I said no?" said Maurice.

The Wee Free Men

Tiffany Aching's little brother has been stolen by the Queen of the Fairies (although Tiffany doesn't think this is entirely a bad thing).
Tiffany's got to get him back. She has the help of the Nac Mac Feegle, the Wee Free Men, the fightin', thievin', tiny blue-skinned pictsies who were thrown out of Fairyland for being Drunk and Disorderly ...

Ordinary fortune-tellers tell you what you want to happen; witches tell you what's going to happen whether you want it to or not. Strangely enough, witches tend to be more accurate but less popular.

She wanted to be a witch when she grew up, and she was certain the name Tiffany just wouldn't work. People would laugh.

"Zoology, eh? That's a big word, isn't it."
"No, actually it isn't," said Tiffany. "'Patronizing' is a big word. 'Zoology' is really quite short."

"If you believe in yourself and trust in your dreams and follow your star ... you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy."

And why does some boy too stupid to know a cow is worth a lot more than five beans have the right to murder a giant and steal all his gold? Not to mention commit an act of ecological vandalism? And some girl who can't tell the difference between a wolf and her grandmother must either have been as dense as teak or come from an extremely ugly family.

"The thing about witchcraft," said Mistress Weatherwax, "is that it's not like school at all. First you get the test, and then afterward you spend years finding out how you passed it. It's a bit like life in that respect."

Monstrous Regiment

Polly Perks had to become a boy in a hurry. Cutting off her hair and wearing trousers was easy. Learning to fart and belch in public and walk like an ape took more time ...
And now she's enlisted in the army and is searching for her lost brother.
But now she's suddenly in the midst of a war, with no training, and the enemy is hunting them ...

And there was the young male walk. At least women swung only their hips. Young men swung everything, from the shoulders down. You have to try to occupy a lot of space. It makes you look bigger, like a tomcat fluffing his tail. I'm bad. I'm fierce. I'm cool. I'd like a pint of shandy and me mam wants me home by nine.

Polly reached the troll bridge, which cost one penny to cross, or one hundred gold pieces if you had a billygoat. Trolls might not be quick thinkers but they don't forget in a hurry, either.

"We have to steal our food?" said Maladict.
"No, you can starve if that takes your fancy," said the corporal. "I've starved a few times. There's no future in it. Ate a man's leg when we were snowed up in the Ibblestarn campaign but, fair's fair, he ate mine."

It is an established fact that, despite everything society can do, girls of seven are magnetically attracted to the color pink.

"Sir, are you telling me you're going to try to get in dressed as a woman?"
"Well, I'm clearly the only one who's had any practice," said Blouse, rubbing his hands together. "At my old school, we were in and out of skirts all the time."
He looked around at the circle of absolutely expressionless faces.
"Theatricals, you see," he said brightly. "No gels at our boarding school, of course. But we didn't let that stop us. Why, my Lady Spritely in A Comedy of Cuckolds is still talked about ... No, if we need a woman, I'm your man."

A Hat Full of Sky

Eleven-year-old Tiffany Aching wants to be a real witch. But a real witch doesn't casually step out of her body, leaving it empty. Tiffany does, and there's something just waiting for a handy body to take over. Something ancient and horrible, which can't die. Now Tiffany's got to learn to be a real witch really quickly, with the help of arch-witch Mistress Weatherwax and the Nac Mac Feegle ...

If you want to upset a witch you don't have to mess around with charms and spells, you just have to put her in a room with a picture that's hung slightly crooked and watch her squirm.

Rob Anybody had mastered the first two rules of writing, as he understood them.
1. Steal some paper.
2. Steal a pencil.

... and a knife-thrower who threw a lot of knives at an elderly woman in pink tights on a big spinning wooden disc and completely failed to hit her every time.

"Witches are all equal. We don't have things like head witches. That's quite against the spirit of witchcraft."
"Oh, I see," said Tiffany.
"Besides," Miss Level added, "Mistress Weatherwax would never allow that sort of thing."

"Yes, but you didn't actually eat them, did you?" said Tiffany. "It was the owl that actually ate them."
"Technically, yes," Mistress Weatherwax admitted. "But if you think you've been eating voles all night you'd be amazed how much you don't want to eat anything next morning."

For an old woman Mistress Weatherwax could move quite fast. She strode over the moors as if distance was a personal insult.

There were no judges and no prizes. The Witch Trial weren't like that. It wasn't a competition, honestly. No one won.
And if you believed that you'd believe that the moon is pushed around the sky by a goblin called Wilberforce.

Going Postal

Moist von Lipwig is a con artist ...
... and a fraud and a man faced with a life choice: be hanged or put Ankh-Morpork's ailing postal service back on its feet.
It's a tough decision.
But he's got to see that the mail gets through, come rain, hail, sleet, dogs, the Post Office Workers' Friendly and Benevolent Society, the evil chairman of the Grand Trunk Semaphore Company, and a midnight killer.
Getting a date with Adora Belle Dearheart would be nice too.

"If you stick a broom up my arse I could probably sweep the floor, too," said Moist.
Lord Vetinari gave him a long, long look.
"Well, if you wish," he said, and turned to a hovering clerk. "Drumknott, does this housekeeper have a store cupboard on this floor, do you know?"

He had a beard of the short bristled type that suggested that its owner had been interrupted halfway through eating a hedgehog.

"Tiddles?" said Moist. "You mean that really is a cat's name? I thought it was just a joke."
"Not so much a name, sir, more of a description," said Groat.

A thinking tyrant, it seemed to Vetinari, had a much harder job than a ruler raised to power by some idiot vote-yourself-rich system like democracy. At least they could tell the people he was their fault.

Ridcully practiced the First Available Surface method of filing.


Koom Valley? That was where the trolls ambushed the dwarfs, of the dwarfs ambushed the trolls. It was fat away. It was a long time ago.
But if he doesn't solve the murder of just one dwarf, Commander Sam Vimes of Ankh-Morpork City Watch is going to see it fought again, right outside his office.
Oh, and at six o'clock every day, without fail, with no excuses, he must go home to read Where's My Cow?, with all the right farmyard noises, to his little boy.
There are some things you have to do.

"I was privileged to belong to the Shamlegger Street Rude Boys, sir," said the butler.

"A cap-brim sewn with sharpened pennies, sir."
"Ye gods, man! You could put someone's eye out with something like that."
"With care, sir, yes," said Willikins, meticulously folding a towel.

"Anyway, she wasn't just Miss May, she was the first week in June as well," Nobby pointed out. "It was the only way they had room."

Colon knew in his heart that spinning upside down around a pole wearing a costume you could floss with definitely was not Art, and being painted lying on a bed wearing nothing but a smile and a small bunch of grapes was good solid Art, but putting your finger on why this was the case was a bit tricky.

"Nobby is so used to women saying no when he asks them out that he's not afraid of being blown out. So he asks her, because he figures, why not? And she, who by now thinks there's something wrong with her, is so grateful she says okay."


Tiffany Aching put one little foot wrong, made one little mistake ...
And now the spirit of winter is in love with her. He gives her roses and icebergs, says it with avalanches and showers her with snowflakes—which is tough when you're thirteen, but also just a little bit ... cool.

When the gods made sheep they must've left their brains in their other coat.

Granny Weatherwax had an "I am here" signal that bounced off the mountains when she wanted it to; when she walked into a forest, all the wolves and bears ran out the other side.

The Feegles didn't know the meaning of the word "fear." Sometimes Tiffany wished they'd read a dictionary. They fought like tigers, they fought like demons, they fought like giants. What they didn't do was fight like something with more than a spoonful of brain.

When the noise had died down a bit, the drummer beat the drum a few times and the accordionist played a long-drawn-out chord, the legal signal that a Morris Dance is about to begin, and people who hang around have only got themselves to blame.

Making Money

Who would not wish to be the man in charge of Ankh-Morpork's Royal Mint and the bank next door?
It's a job for life. But, as former conman Moist von Lipwig is learning, life is not necessarily for long.
The Chief Cashier is almost certainly a vampire. There's something nameless in the cellar ...

"You Have An Appointment Now With Lord Vetinari," said the golem.
"I'm sure I don't."
"There Are Two Guards Outside Who Are Sure You Do."

Funny that: a brigand for a father was something you kept quiet about, but a slave-taking pirate for a great-great-great grandfather was something to boast of over the port. Time turned the evil bastards into rogues, and rogue was a word with a twinkle in its eye and nothing to be ashamed of.

"The city bleeds, Mr. Lipwig, and you are the clot I need."

The lady in the boardroom was certainly an attractive woman, but since she worked for the Times, Moist felt unable to award her total ladylike status. Ladies didn't fiendishly quote exactly what you said but didn't exactly mean, or hit you around the ear with unexpectedly difficult questions. Well, come to think of it, they did, quite often, but she got paid for it.

Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler sold pies and sausages off a tray, usually to people who were the worse for drink, who then became the worse for pies.

"I'm an Igor, thur. We don't athk quethtionth."
"Really? Why not?"
"I don't know, thur. I didn't athk."

The price of a good woman was proverbially above rubies, so a bad one was presumably a lot more.

All heads turned. A path cleared itself for Lord Vetinari; paths do for men known to have dungeons in their basements.

"You get a wonderful view from the point of no return."




Mau is the only one left after a giant wave sweeps his island village away. But when much is taken, something is returned, and somewhere in the jungle Daphne, a girl from the other side of the globe, is the sole survivor of a ship destroyed by the same wave.

The book's title was The Mariners' Medical Companion ... aargh! An illustration that she really did not want to see; it was for those times when things were so bad that not even a surgeon could make them worse.

But she was absolutely certain that Mau shouldn't be watching her, boy or not. This was called the Women's Place, and it didn't get more womanly than it was about to be.

Daphne thought: I'm learning things. I hope I find out soon what they are.

She sighed a sigh that was older than she was.

"We taught them the songs of children, which have lessons in them. And then we gave them to the Grandfathers, who taught them how to kill other women's sons."

The dead passed in their hundreds and Daphne lost count. She kept reminding herself how scared she wasn't. After all, hadn't she quite enjoyed that lecture on anatomy she had attended? Even though she had kept her eyes shut throughout?

"There are different ways to eat people, girl, and you are clever, oh yes, clever enough to know it. And sometimes the people don't realize it's happened until they hear the belch!"

It was a terrible thing, said Cookie, to see religion get such a hold on a decent soul.

But Mau walked as if every part of his body knew where it was and where it was going to and exactly how fast it had to go to get there. People would have paid good money just to see the muscles on his back move like they were doing now. She understood the maids back home a lot more when the sun gleamed on his shoulders. Ahem.


Once you've read a couple you'll want to own The Wit & Wisdom of Discworld, compiled by Stephen Briggs. It gives much more of the jacket blurb and then several pages of the best quotes from each book.


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