Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought.
Oh, come on. Revelation was a mushroom dream that belonged in the Apocrypha. The New Testament is basically about what happened when God got religion.
Gods play games with the fates of men. But first they have to get all the pieces on the board and look all over the place for the dice.
Good or bad, do it as you. Too many lies and there’s no truth to go back to.
Granny was an old-fashioned witch. She didn’t do good for people, she did right by them.
There are times in life when people must know when not to let go. Balloons are designed to teach small children this.
The girls were expected to grow up to be somebody’s wife. They were also expected to read and write, those being considered soft indoor jobs that were too fiddly for the boys.
And all the stories had, somewhere, the witch. The wicked old witch. And Tiffany had thought: Where’s the evidence?
Hello, inner child, I’m the inner babysitter!
Last hopeless chances have got to work. Nothing makes sense otherwise. You might as well not be alive.
Insofar as he’d formed any opinion of her, it was that she suffered from misplaced gentility and the mistaken belief that etiquette meant good breeding. She mistook mannerisms for manners.
You know how to pray, don’t you? Just put your hands together and hope.
Letitia! What a name. Halfway between a salad and a sneeze.
I should have learned this, she thought. I wanted to learn fire, and pain, but I should have learned people.
Go anywhere you wish, talk to everyone. Ask any questions; you will be given answers. When you want to learn, you will be taught. Use the library. Open any book.
You call yourself some kind of goddess and you know nothing, madam, nothing. What don’t die can’t live. What don’t live can’t change. What don’t change can’t learn. The smallest creature that dies in the grass knows more than you.
Modesty is only arrogance by stealth.
You haven’t really been anywhere until you’ve got back home.
You can’t trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.
Little crimes breed big crimes. You smile at little crimes and then big crimes blow your head off.
He was the sort of person who stood on mountaintops during thunderstorms in wet copper armour shouting ‘All the Gods are bastards.