Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld Read Online Free PDF

a privy with.’
    ‘Certainly but neither does mine look like a wet hedgehog.’
    ‘Pray note that my chest does not appear to be a toast rack in a wet paper bag.’
    Mort glanced sideways at the top of Ysabell’s dress, which contained enough puppy fat for two litters of Rottweilers, and forbore to comment.
    ‘My eyebrows don’t look like a pair of mating caterpillars,’ he hazarded.
    ‘True. But my legs, I suggest, could at least stop a pig in a passageway’
    ‘Sorry—?’
    ‘They’re not bandy’ she explained.
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘Enough?’ she said.
    ‘Just about.’
    ‘Good. Obviously we shouldn’t get married, if only for the sake of the children.’
    *
    History unravels gently, like an old sweater. It has been patched and darned many times, reknitted to suit different people, shoved in a box under the sink of censorship to be cut up for the dusters of propaganda, yet it always - eventually - manages to spring back into its old familiar shape. History has a habit of changing the people who think they are changing it. History always has a few tricks up its frayed sleeve. It’s been around a long time.

    ‘Would you like a strawberry?’
    Mort glanced at the small wooden punnet in the wizard’s hands.
    ‘In mid-winter?’
    ‘Actually they’re sprouts with a dash of enchantment.’
    ‘They taste like strawberries?’
    Cutwell sighed. ‘No, like sprouts.’

    ‘I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel,’ [said Keli.]
    Mort’s forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him.
    ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,’ said Cutwell.
    ‘She meant to! She was crossed in love!’
    ‘All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses’ milk. Funny thing, history,’ said Cutwell reflectively. ‘You become a queen,reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yoghurt and were bitten in the—’
    *
    The most famous inn on Discworld used to be called the Broken Drum (Broken Drum -You Can’t Beat It!). Renamed after a particularly bad fire.
    The Mended Drum in Filigree Street, foremost of the city’s taverns. It was famed not for its beer, which looked like maiden’s water and tasted like battery acid, but for its clientele. It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse.
    *
    Ysabell was heavily into frills. Even the dressing table seemed to be wearing a petticoat. The whole room wasn’t so much furnished as lingeried.
    *
    Mort is reading from a very old book in the Library of Death:
    ‘… turnered hys hand, butt was sorelie vexed that alle menne at laste comme to nort, viz. Deathe, and vowed hymme to seke Imortalitie yn his pride … It’s written in Old,’ he said. ‘Before they invented spelling.’
    *
    Death visits a job centre:
    ‘It would seem that you have no useful skill or talent whatsoever,’ Keeble said. ‘Have you thought of going into teaching?’
    Death’s face was a mask of terror. Well, it was always a mask of terror, but this time he meant it to be.

    They opened the ledger.
    They looked at it for a long time.
    Then Mort said, ‘What do all those symbols mean?’
    ‘Sodomy non sapiens,’ said Albert under his breath.
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘Means I’m buggered if I know.’

    Harga’s House of Ribs down by the docks is probably not numbered among the city’s leading eateries, catering as it does for the type of beefy clientele that prefers quantity and breaks up the tables if it doesn’t get it. They don’t go in for the fancy or exotic, but stick to conventional food like flightless bird embryos, minced organs in intestine skins, slices of hog flesh and burnt ground grass seeds dipped in animal fats; or, as it is known in their patois, egg, soss and bacon and a fried slice.
    *
    ‘Rincewind!’ bawled Albert. ‘Take this thing away and