Terry Pratchett

"Actors," said Granny, witheringly. "As if the world weren't full of enough history without inventing more."

"There must be a hundred silver dollars in here," moaned Boggis, waving a purse. "I mean, that's not my league. That's not my class. I can't handle that sort of money. You've got to be in the Guild of Lawyers or something to steal that much."

Greebo's grin gradually faded, until there was nothing left but the cat. This was nearly as spooky as the other way round.

It was dawning on him that the pleasures of the flesh were pretty sparse without the flesh. Suddenly life wasn't worth living. The fact that he wasn't living it didn't cheer him up at all.

Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldn't trust it. Often you couldn't even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else—coincidence, maybe, or providence.

Granny Weatherwax didn't hold with looking at the future, but now she could feel the future looking at her. She didn't like its expression at all.

This is Art holding a Mirror up to Life. That's why everything is exactly the wrong way round.

"I'd like to know if I could compare you to a summer's day. Because—well, June 12th was quite nice, and...Oh. You've gone."

The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.

It occurred to her that in addition to being a collection of other things, the forest was a thing in itself. Alive, only not alive in the way that, say, a shrew was alive.

This was real. This was more real even than reality. This was history. It might not be true, but that had nothing to do with it.

They suffered from the terrible delusion that something could be done. They seemed prepared to make the world the way they wanted or die in the attempt, and the trouble with dying in the attempt was that you died in the attempt.