Why is there no fanart of Death eating curry
"Well, basically there are two sorts of opera," said Nanny, who had the true witch’s ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. "There’s your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like ‘Oh, oh, oh, I am dyin’, oh, I am dyin’, oh, oh, oh, that’s what I’m doin’,’ and then there’s your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes, ‘Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!’ although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That’s basically all of opera, reely."
"What? Either dyin’ or drinkin’ beer?"
"Basically, yes," said Nanny, contriving to suggest that this was the whole gamut of human experience.
I appreciate the fact that High Energy Magic is literally just the Discworld equivalent of Physics.
It’s also good manners to circulate and not just hang around the people you came with. A good tip here, I find, is to keep your eye on the people carrying trays of drinks and food. Keep up with them. The evening will pass very happily.
To young men I would say: you’ve prob’ly been invited because you can dance and are known to wash regular, so make yourself available to dance with any plain neglected wallflower. She may be spotty, but what is a sky without stars?
Nanny Ogg on balls (via reverse-mermaid)
Choices. It was always choices …
There’d been that man down in Spackle, the one that’d killed those little kids. The people’d sent for her and she’d looked at him and seen the guilt writhing in his head like a red worm, and then she’d taken them to his farm and showed them where to dig, and he’d thrown himself down and asked her for mercy, because he said he’d been drunk and it’d all been done in alcohol.
Her words came back to her. She’d said, in sobriety: end it in hemp.
And they’d dragged him off and hanged him in a hempen rope and she’d gone to watch because she owed him that much, and he’d cursed, which was unfair because hanging is a clean death, or at least cleaner than the one he’d have got if the villagers had dared defy her, and she’d seen the shadow of Death come for him, and then behind Death came the smaller, brighter figures, and then—
In the darkness, the rocking chair creaked as it thundered back and forth.
The villagers had said justice had been done, and she’d lost patience and told them to go home, then, and pray to whatever gods they believed in that it was never done to them. The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed.
She shuddered at a memory. Almost as horrible, but not quite.
The thing was, quite a few of the villagers had turned up at his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people along the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn’t such a bad chap … and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she’d got the dark looks.
Who’d come to her funeral when she died?
They didn’t ask her!
Memories jostled. Other figures marched into the shadows around the candlelight.
She’d done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outward that had surprised even her. She’d faced down others far more powerful than she was, if only she’d allowed them to believe it. She’d given up so much, but she’d earned a lot …
It was a sign. She knew it’d come, sooner or later … They’d realized it, and now she was no more use …
What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches, they gave you a bigger shovel.
And you got these bare walls, this bare floor, this cold cottage.
The darkness in the corners grew out into the room and began to tangle in her hair.
They didn’t ask her!
She’d never, never asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn’t get it.
She’d always tried to face toward the light. She’d always tried to face toward the light. But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned in you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become—
~ Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum
My favourite thing is the fact that Death says so many good things, but when you try to quote them on Tumblr it looks like someone is aggressively yelling philosophy
"Happy birthday Esme! I made you cake. It’s apples. Well, mostly apples. I was going to have candles but then I remembered last Christmas, you know, the accident with the brandy pudding and the explosion. Anyway."
Happy birthday Cal3ris!