Witches Abroad

Blessings be on this house," Granny said, perfunctorily. It was always a good opening remark for a witch. It concentrated people's minds on what other things might be on this house.

Most witches don’t believe in gods. They know that the gods exist, of course. They even deal with them occasionally. But they don’t believe in them. They know them too well. It would be like believing in the postman.

People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around.

Nanny Ogg knew how to start spelling 'banana', but didn't know how you stopped.

The wages of sin is death but so is the salary of virtue, and at least the evil get to go home early on Fridays.

Wisdom is one of the few things that looks bigger the further away it is.

Your average witch is not, by nature, a social animal as far as other witches are concerned. There's a conflict of dominant personalities. There's a group of ringleaders without a ring. There's the basic unwritten rule of witchcraft, which is 'Don't do what you will, do what I say.' The natural size of a coven is one. Witches only get together when they can't avoid it.

You can't go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage. Besides you don't build a better world by choppin' heads off and giving decent girls away to frogs.

Cats gravitate to kitchens like rocks gravitate to gravity.

Humanity's a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

Where's the pleasure in bein' the winner if the loser ain't alive to know they've lost?

It's daft, locking us up," said Nanny. "I'd have had us killed." "That's because you're basically good," said Magrat. "The good are innocent and create justice. The bad are guilty, which is why they invent mercy.

What was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness. But halfway between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge...maybe then a witch could believe in the moon.

You can't go around building a better world for people. Only people can build a better world for people. Otherwise it's just a cage.

Good and bad is tricky," she said. "I ain't too certain about where people stand. P'raps what matters is which way you face.

Granny Weatherwax was not a good loser. From her point of view, losing was something that happened to other people.

Find the story, Granny Weatherwax always said. She believed that the world was full of story shapes. If you let them, they controlled you. But if you studied them, if you found out about them... you could use them, you could change them.

The dwarf bread was brought out for inspection. But it was miraculous, the dwarf bread. No one ever went hungry when they had some dwarf bread to avoid. You only had to look at it for a moment, and instantly you could think of dozens of things you'd rather eat. Your boots, for example. Mountains. Raw sheep. Your own foot.

Cats are like witches. They don’t fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There’s no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won’t know they’ve lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There’s no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure.

I don't want to hurt you, Mistress Weatherwax," said Mrs Gogol. "That's good," said Granny. "I don't want you to hurt me either.

Racism was not a problem on the Discworld, because—what with trolls and dwarfs and so on—speciesism was more interesting. Black and white lived in perfect harmony and ganged up on green.

The trouble with witches is that they’ll never run away from things they really hate. And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a mongoose.

People whose wishes get granted often don't turn out to be very nice people.

Magrat said she could never make the wand do that and Esme said no because, she wasted time wishing for thinges to happen instead of working out how to make them happen.

Stories don't care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats. Or, if you prefer to think of it like this: stories are a parasitical life form, warping lives in the service only of the story itself.

In Genua, someone set out to make dreams come true. Remember some of your dreams?

You can't trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.

It pays to advertise,” Nanny agreed. “This is Greebo. Between you and me, he’s a fiend from hell.” “Well, he’s a cat,” said Mrs. Gogol, generously. “It’s only to be expected.