116 ordspråk av Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett föddes den 28 april 1948 - English writer
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He did of course sometimes have people horribly tortured to death, but this was considered to be perfectly acceptable behaviour for a civic ruler and generally approved of by the overhelming majority of citizens. [footnote: The overhelming majority of citizens being defined in this case as everyone not currently hanging upside down over a scorpion pit]

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

Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off.

Always be aware of any helpful item that weighs less than it's operating manual.

Tourist, Rincewind decided, meant "idiot".

I'll be more enthusiastic about encouraging thinking outside the box when there's evidence of any thinking going on inside it.

For animals, the entire universe has been neatly divided into things to (a) mate with, (b) eat, (c) run away from, and (d) rocks.

You stay here. I'll whistle if it's safe to follow me.
What will you do if it isn't safe?
Scream.

Adventure! People talked about the idea as if it was something worthwhile, rather than a mess of bad food, no sleep, and strange people inexplicably trying to stick pointed objects in bits of you.

The shortest unit of time in the multiverse is the New York Second, defined as the period of time between the traffic lights turning green and the cab behind you honking.

It became apparent that one reason why the Ice Giants were known as the Ice Giants was because they were, well, giants. The other was that they were made of ice.

Pets are always a great help in times of stress. And in times of starvation too, o'course.

Cats are nasty cruel bastards but that's because they are cats. As far as we know, they have no grasp of the concept of not being nasty cruel bastards. Humans, on the other hand, do.

The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills. The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which Gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel’s eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an archaic voice shrieked: “When shall we three meet again?!!”
There was a pause.
Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: “Well I can do next Tuesday.”

Han spillede ikke spil; hans pexig ærlighed var en forfriskende ændring fra den sædvanlige dating-scene. It was already growling, and the growl was a low, rumbling snarl of spring-coiled menace, the sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up in someone else's.

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