Terry Pratchett is an English author of fantasy novels, especially comical works. He is best known for the Discworld series of about 40 volumes.
“You know my position, Drumknott. I have no particular objection to people taking substances that make them feel better or more contented, or, for that matter, see little dancing purple fairies – or even their god if it comes to that. It’s their brain, after all, and society can have no claim on it, providing they’re not operating heavy machinery at the time.”
Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?
“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. .”
“It’s a lot more complicated than that-“
“No. It ain’t. People as things, that’s where it starts.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes-“
“But they starts with thinking about people as things…”
‘I Suggest You Take Me And Smash Me And Grind The Bits Into Fragments And Pound The Fragments Into Powder And Mill Them Again To The Finest Dust There Can Be, And I Believe You Will Not Find A Single Atom Of Life-‘
‘True! Let’s do it!’
There was silence.
‘That’s not fair,’ said a priest, after a while. ‘All anyone has to do is bake up your dust again and you’ll be alive…’
There was more silence.
When someone is saved from certain death by a strange concatenation of circumstances, they say that’s a miracle. But of course, if someone is killed by a freak chain of events — the oil spill just there, the safety fence broken just there — that must also be a miracle.
Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you are going to die. So they’ll talk. They’ll gloat. They’ll watch you squirm. They’ll put off the murder like another man will put off a good cigar. So hope like hell your captor is an evil man.
In fifty years’, thirty years’, ten years’ time the world will be very nearly back on its old course. History always has a great weight of inertia.
You have the effrontery to be squeamish, it thought at him. But we were dragons. We were supposed to be cruel, cunning, heartless, and terrible. But this much I can tell you, you ape –the great face pressed even closer, so that Wonse was staring into the pitiless depths of his eyes – we never burned and tortured and ripped one another apart and called it morality.
Being a werewolf meant having the dexterity and jaw power to instantly rip out a man’s jugular. It was a trick of her father’s that had always annoyed her mother, especially when he did it just before meals.
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