Terry Pratchett
Terry Pratchett
Sir Terence David John "Terry" Pratchett, OBEwas an English author of fantasy novels, especially comical works. He is best known for his Discworld series of 41 novels. Pratchett's first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971; after the first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, he wrote two books a year on average. His 2011 Discworld novel Snuff was at the time of its release the third-fastest-selling hardback adult-readership novel since records began in the...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth28 April 1948
CityBeaconsfield, England
What did they feed the lions and tigers with in the ark, sir?
Were you proposing to shoot these people in cold blood, sergeant?" "Nossir. Just a warning shot inna head, sir.
If he'd been a hero, he would have taken the opportunity to say, "That's what I call sorted!" Since he wasn't a hero, he threw up.
Moist was sure doctors keep skeletons around to cow patients. Nyer, nyer, we know what you look underneath ...
This wasn't food - it was what food became if it had been good and gone to food heaven.
You do know you could find yourself charged with being a dominant species while under the influence of impulse-driven consumerism, don't you?
Winston Churchill said 'In war time, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies'. Any book called The Truth should therefore have one.
I don't see what's so triffic about creating people as people and then gettin' upset 'cos they act like people.
Because some stories end, but old stories go on, and you gotta dance to the music if you want to stay ahead
Them as can do has to do for them as can't. And someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.
Don't you understand?" snarled Rincewind. "We are going over the Edge, godsdammit!" "Can't we do anything about it?" "No!" "Then I can't see the sense in panicking," said Twoflower calmly.
At some time in the recent past someone had decided to brighten the ancient corridors of the University by painting them, having some vague notion that Learning Should Be Fun. It hadn’t worked. It’s a fact known throughout the universes that no matter how carefully the colors are chosen, institutional decor ends up as either vomit green, unmentionable brown, nicotine yellow or surgical appliance pink. By some little-understood process of sympathetic resonance, corridors painted in those colors always smell slightly of boiled cabbage—even if no cabbage is ever cooked in the vicinity.
Truly, he thought, the way of enlightenment is like unto half a mile of broken glass.
Never cross a woman with a star on a stick, young lady. They've got a mean streak.