But Here's Some Advice, Boy. Don't Put

All Things That Are, Are Ours. But We Must Care. For If We Do Not Care, We Do Not Exist. If We Do Not Exist, Then There Is Nothing But Blind Oblivion. And Even Oblivion Must End Someday. Lord, Will You Grant Me Just A Little Time? For The Proper Balance Of Things. To Return What Was Given. For The Sake Of Prisoners And The Flight Of Birds. Death Took A Step Backwards. It Was Impossible To Read Expression In Azrael's Features. Death Glanced Sideways At The Servants. Lord, What Can The Harvest Hope For, If Not For The Care Of The Reaper Man?

The Ideal Death, I Think, Is What Was The Ideal Victorian Death, You Know, With Your Grandchildren Around You, A Bit Of Sobbing. And You Say Goodbye To Your Loved Ones, Making Certain That One Of Them Has Been Left Behind To Look After The Shop.

Rincewind Gave His Fingers A Long Shocked Stare, As One Might Regard A Gun That Has Been Hanging On The Wall For Decades And Has Suddenly Gone Off And Perforated The Cat.

I Was A Very Keen Reader Of Science Fiction, And During The Time I Was Going To Libraries, It Was Good, Written By People Who Knew Their Science.

And All The Stories Had, Somewhere, The Witch. The Wicked Old Witch. And Tiffany Had Thought: Where's The Evidence?