Terry Pratchett

There were more than nine hundred known gods on the Disc, and research theologians were discovering more every year.

"Pardon me for living, I'm sure."

Ankh-Morpork had dallied with many forms of government and had ended up with that form of democracy known as One Man, One Vote. The Patrician was the Man; he had the Vote.

"He doesn't like wizards and witches much," Mort volunteered.

"You won't get away with this," said Cutwell. He thought for a bit and added, "Well, you will probably get away with it, but you'll feel bad about it on your deathbed and you'll wish—" He stopped talking.

"They can't see me either!" said Mort. "But I'm real!"

"As simple as that? You didn't use magic?"

"And he goes around killing people?" said Mort. He shook his head. "There's no justice."

The thing between Death's triumphant digits was a fly from the dawn of time. It was the fly in the primordial soup. It had bred on mammoth turds. It wasn't a fly that bangs on window panes, it was a fly that drills through walls.

Truly, he thought, the way of enlightenment is like unto half a mile of broken glass.

The world's greatest lovers were undoubtedly Mellius and Gretelina, whose pure, passionate and soul-searing affair would have scorched the pages of History if they had not, because of some unexplained quirk of fate, been born two hundred years apart on different continents. However, the gods took pity on them, and turned her into an ironing board, and him into a small brass bollard.

Resolution was good for the moral fiber; the only trouble was the fiber didn't appreciate the sacrifices he was making for it.