When Mister Safety Catch Is Not On,

Well, It Would Have To Be “the Man Who Was Thursday.” It’s A Damn Good Read That I Believe Should Be Read By Everyone In Politics.

History Has A Habit Of Changing The People Who Think They Are Changing It

By The Time You Write The Last Page You Have Done Half The Book. The Other Half Tends To Get Done In About Five Weeks; I Do Several Drafts, Very, Very Furiously Rewriting. I Literally Do More Or Less Nothing Else And I Stick With It And Go Through It And I Begin To Hate It.

Little Fussy Otto, In His Red-lined Black Opera Cloak With Pockets For All His Gear, His Shiny Black Shoes, His Carefully Cut Widow's Peak And, Not Least, His Ridiculous Accent That Grew Thicker Or Thinner Depending On Who He Was Talking To, Did Not Look Like A Threat. He Looked Funny, A Joke, A Music-hall Vampire. It Had Never Previously Occurred To Vimes That, Just Possibly, The Joke Was On Other People.

Well, Basically There Are Two Sorts Of Opera," Said Nanny, Who Also Had The True Witch's Ability To Be Confidently Expert On The Basis Of No Experience Whatsoever. "there's Your Heavy Opera, Where Basically People Sing Foreign And It Goes Like "oh Oh Oh, I Am Dyin', Oh I Am Dyin', Oh Oh Oh, That's What I'm Doin'", And There's Your Light Opera, Where They Sing In Foreign And It Basically Goes "beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I Like To Drink Lots Of Beer!", Although Sometimes They Drink Champagne Instead. That's Basically All Of Opera, Reely.