The Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld

Harry, we wrote on his coffin.’

    Angua was aware that she had a slight advantage over male werewolves in that naked women caused fewer complaints, although the downside was that they got some pressing invitations. Some kind of covering was essential, for modesty and the prevention of inconvenient bouncing, which was why fashioning impromptu clothes out of anything to hand was a lesser-known werewolf skill.
    *
    ‘It’s the waiting that’s the worst part,’ said his sergeant, next to him.
    ‘It might be the worst part,’ said the commander. ‘Or, there again, the bit where they suddenly rise out of the desert and cut you in half might be the worst part.’
    *
    Lord Vetinari helped him up. ‘Our very lives depend on your appearing to be a stupid fat idiot,’ he hissed, putting Colon’s fez back on his head.
    ‘I ain’t very good at acting, sir—’
    ‘Good!’
    *
    ‘Your predecessor, Lord Snapcase, now he was mental. But, like I’ve always said, people know where they stand with Lord Vetinari…’
    ‘Well done.’
    ‘They might not like where they’re standing of course …’

 
    I T’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?
    There are some people who have a legend that the whole universe is carried in a leather bag by an old man.
    Other people say: hold on, if he’s carrying the entire universe in a sack, right, that means he’s carrying himself and the sack inside the sack, because the universe contains everything. Including him. And the sack, of course. Which contains him and the sack already. As it were.
    To which the reply is: well?
    All tribal myths are true, for a given value of ‘true’.
    *
    The Ceremony of the Keys went on every night in every season. Mere ice, wind and snow had never stopped it. You couldn’t stop Tradition. You could only add to it.
    McAbre, Head Bledlow, with his two escorts, reached the shadows by the main gate. The bledlow on duty was waiting for them.
    ‘Halt! Who Goes There?’ he shouted.
    McAbre saluted. The Arch-chancellor’s Keys!’
    ‘Pass, The Archchancellor’s Keys!’
    The Head Bledlow took a step forward, extended both arms in front of him with his palms bent back towards him, and patted his chest at the place where some bledlow long buried had once had two breast pockets. Pat, pat. Then he extended his arms by his sides and stiffly patted the sides of his jacket. Pat, pat.
    ‘Damn! Could Have Sworn I Had Them A Moment Ago!’ he bellowed, enunciating each word with a sort of bulldog carefulness.
    The gatekeeper saluted. McAbre saluted.
    ‘Have You Looked In All Your Pockets?’
    McAbre saluted. The gatekeeper saluted.
    ‘I Think I Must Have Left Them On The Dresser. It’s Always The Same, Isn’t It?’
    ‘You Should Remember Where You Put Them Down!’
    ‘Hang On, Perhaps They’re In My Other Jacket!’
    The young bledlow who was this week’s Keeper of the Other Jacket stepped forward. Each man saluted the other two. The youngest cleared his throat and managed to say:
    ‘No, I Looked In … There This … Morning!’
    McAbre gave him a slight nod to acknowledge a difficult job done well, and patted his pockets again.
    ‘Hold On, Stone The Crows, They Were In This Pocket After All! What A Muggins I Am!’
    ‘Don’t Worry, I Do The Same Myself!’
    ‘Is My Face Red! Forget My Own Head Next! … Here’s The Keys, Then!’ said McAbre.
    ‘Much Obliged!’ …
    ‘All Safe And Secure!’ shouted the gatekeeper, handing the keys back.
    ‘Gods Bless All Present!’
    ‘Careful Where You Put Them This Time. Ha! Ha! Ha!’
    ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ yelled McAbre. He saluted stiffly, went About Turn witha large amount of foot stamping and, the ancient exchange completed, marched back to the bledlows’ lodge.
    *
    Light travels slowly on the Disc and is slightly heavy, with a tendency to pile up against high mountain ranges. Research wizards have speculated that there is another, much speedier type of light which allows the slower light to be seen, but since this moves too fast to see they have been unable to find a use for it.
    *
    Ponder Stibbons was one of those