Sourcery:
Overview
SOURCERERS MAKE THEIR OWN DESTINY. THEY TOUCH THE EARTH LIGHTLY.
[p. 9]
'And what would humans be without love?'
RARE, said Death.
[p. 9, submitted by Kenneth Stagg]
NOTHING IS FINAL. NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE. EXCEPT ME, OF COURSE. SUCH TINKERING WITH DESTINY COULD MEAN THE DOWNFALL OF THE WORLD. THERE MUST BE A CHANCE, HOWEVER SMALL. THE LAWYERS OF FATE DEMAND A LOOPHOLE IN EVERY PROPHECY.
[p. 10]
The Drum jealously guarded its reputation as the most stylishly disreputable tavern in Ankh-Morpork and the big troll that now guarded the door carefully vetted customers for suitability in the way of black cloaks, glowing eyes, magic swords and so forth. Rincewind never found out what he did to the failures. Perhaps he ate them.
[p. 44]
'Why?' he [Rincewind] said.
The world is going to end.
'What, again?'
[p. 52]
'What good is a candle at noonday?'
[p. 118]
The point about being killed by magic was that it was much more inventive than, say, steel; there were all sorts of interesting new ways to die, and he couldn't put out of his mind the shapes he'd seen, just for an instant, before the wash of octarine fire had mercifully engulfed them.
[p. 146]
The truth isn't easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than soap, and much more difficult to find...
[p. 170]
'Nothing works against magic. Except stronger magic. And then the only thing that beats stronger magic is even stronger magic. And the next thing you know...'
'Phooey?'
[p. 177, Rincewind and Nijel]
He [Rincewind] wondered how old the tower really was. Older than the University, certainly. Older than the city, which had formed about it like scree around a mountain. Maybe older than geography.
[p. 213]
'The gods,' he said. 'Imprisoned in a thought. And perhaps they were never more than a dream.'
[p. 237]
'It's vital to remember who you really are. It's very important. It isn't a good idea to rely on other people or things to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong.'
[p. 257]
'Is it heroic to die like this?' said Conina.
'I think it is,' he said, 'and when it comes to dying, there's only one opinion that matters.'
[p. 263]
Silence filled the University in the same way that air fills a hole. Night spread across the Disk like plum jam, or possibly blackberry preserve.
But there would be a morning. There would always be another morning.
[p. 270]