Ankhe Quotes

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles. But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socioeconomic unfairness.

Ankh-Morpork had dallied with many forms of government and had ended up with that form of democracy known as One Man, One Vote. The Patrician was the Man; he had the Vote.

...And you, you better run because i'm going to destroy you for what you've taken from me.

Murder was in fact a fairly uncommon event in Ankh-Morpork, but there were a lot of suicides. Walking in the night-time alleyways of The Shades was suicide. Asking for a short in a dwarf bar was suicide. Saying 'Got rocks in your head?' to a troll was suicide. You could commit suicide very easily, if you weren't careful.

Ankh-Morpork! Pearl of cities! This is not a completely accurate description, of course — it was not round and shiny — but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc.

...and still Eden was avoiding him like he was a Bieber fan at a Korn concert.

There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell.

I comma square bracket recruit's name square bracket comma do solemnly swear by square bracket recruit's deity of choice square bracket to uphold the Laws and Ordinances of the City of Ankh-Morpork comma serve the public truƒt comma and defend the ƒubjects of his ƒtroke her bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket Majeƒty bracket name of reigning monarch bracket without fear comma favour comma or thought of perƒonal ƒafety semi-colon to purƒue evildoers and protect the innocent comma comma laying down my life if neceƒsary in the cauƒe of said duty comma so help me bracket aforeƒaid deity bracket full stop Gods Save the King stroke Queen bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket full stop.

In Ankh-Morpork you can be whoever you want to be and sometimes people laugh and sometimes they clap, and mostly and beautifully, they don't really care.

It was said that life was cheap in Ankh-Morpork. This was of course, completely wrong. Life was often very expensive; you could get death for free.

The commander went, as they say in Ankh-Morpork, totally Librarian on them.

She would see it as betrayal. Nothing more. Nothing less.

If there were such a thing as an inter-city thieving contest, Ankh-Morpork would bring home the trophy and probably everyone’s wallets.

We're dealing here," said Vimes, "With a twisted mind." "Oh, no! You think so?" "Yes." "But... no... you can't be right. Because Nobby was with us all the time." "Not Nobby," said Vimes testily. "Whatever he might do to a dragon, I doubt if he'd make it explode. There's stranger people in this world than Corporal Nobbs, my lad." Carrot's expression slid into a rictus of intrigued horror. "Gosh," he said.

That's the Ankh-Morpork instinct, Vimes thought. Run away, and then stop and see if anything interesting is going to happen to other people.

Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it's the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it's just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let's just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colourful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.

Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft. When it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to think big.

Might have just been an innocent bystander, sir,’ said Carrot ‘What, in Ankh-Morpork?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘We should have grabbed him, then, just for the rarity value

The first words that are read by seekers of enlightenment in the secret, gong-banging, yeti-haunted valleys near the hub of the world, are when they look into The Life of Wen the Eternally Surprised. The first question they ask is: 'Why was he eternally surprised?' And they are told: 'Wen considered the nature of time and understood that the universe is, instant by instant, recreated anew. Therefore, he understood, there is in truth no past, only a memory of the past. Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them. Therefore, he said, the only appropriate state of the mind is surprise. The only appropriate state of the heart is joy. The sky you see now, you have never seen before. The perfect moment is now. Be glad of it.' The first words read by the young Lu-Tze when he sought perplexity in the dark, teeming, rain-soaked city of Ankh-Morpork were: 'Rooms For Rent, Very Reasonable.' And he was glad of it.

There's a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork. And it's wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way.

If the Creator had said, "Let there be light" in Ankh-Morpork, he'd have got no further because of all the people saying "What colour?

It was Carrot who'd suggested to the Patrician that hardened criminals should be given the chance to 'serve the community' by redecorating the homes of the elderly, lending a new terror to old age and, given Ankh-Morpork's crime rate, leading to at least one old lady having her front room wallpapered so many times in six months that now she could only get in sideways.

A number of religions in Ankh-Morpork still practiced human sacrifice, except that they didn't really need to practice any more because they had got so good at it.

You are dawn and she is midnight. And despite the mist of the half-light, together you see more clearly in the dusk.

No enemies had ever taken Ankh-Morpork. Well technically they had, quite often; the city welcomed free-spending barbarian invaders, but somehow the puzzled raiders found, after a few days, that they didn't own their horses any more, and within a couple of months they were just another minority group with its own graffiti and food shops.

Dude, your girlfriend is so far past high maintenance even the janitor quit.

Ankh, udja, seneb!

The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertainment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they'd be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armour. You didn't get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armour. It would be something for the children to remember.

In Ankh-Morpork even the shit have a street to itself," said Detritus, awe and wonder in his voice. "Truly, this a land of opportunity.

A city like Ankh-Morpork was only two meals away from chaos at the best of times.

―get a reward for surviving,” Kat was saying. “You can start by taking off all you clothes and―” “I don’t need to hear this, Miss Parker,” Mr. Ankh snapped. “―showering,” she finished. “Alone. Of course. I like my men clean.

It was said that [Vetinari] would tolerate absolutely anything apart from anything that threatened the city*... [Footnote] And mime artists. It was a strange aversion, but there you are. Anyone in baggy trousers and a white face who tried to ply their art anywhere within Ankh's crumbling walls would very quickly find themselves in a a scorpion pit, on one wall of which was painted the advice: Learn The Words.

In a well-organized world he might have landed on a fire escape, but the fire escapes were unknown in Ankh-Morpork and the flames generally had to leave via the roof.

She grasped the crook and flail with cool hands and sank gracefully to her knees. The High Priest of Amun placed a piece of flatbread imprinted with an ankh, the symbol of everlasting life, upon her tongue. It was gritty, the dough having been sprinkled with sand blessed by all the High Priests before it was baked that morning.

Well, you know what they say about babies.” The soul eater smirked. “What’s that?” “Don’t underestimate the amount of shit they can bring.

And so Mort came at last to the river Ankh, greatest of rivers. Even before it entered the city, it was slow and heavy with the silt of the plains, and by the time it got to The Shades even an agnostic could have walked across it. It was hard to drown in the Ankh, but easy to suffocate.

The rising sun managed to peek around the vast column of smoke that forever rose from Ankh-Morpork, City of Cities, illustrating almost up to the edge of space that smoke means progress or, at least, people setting fire to things.

the Ankh-Morpork Trespassers' Society was originally the Explorers' Society until Lord Vetinari forcibly insisted that most of the places 'discovered' by the society's members already had people in them, who were already trying to sell snakes to the newcomers.

It was one thing to deal with monsters that were human in appearance. Another thing entirely to deal with humans who were monsters.

Ankh-Morpork is a godless city--' 'I thought it had more than three hundred places of worship?' said Maladict. Strappi stared at him in rage that was incoherent until he managed to touch bottom again. 'Ankh-Morpork is a godawful city', he recovered.

Death has a body like a model, the clothes of a poet and the smile of your best friend. She wears a top hat for fun, her ankh necklace for power, and carries a big black umbrella for travelling to the 'sunless lands.' I wonder what she smells like? I'm sure it's fresh and clean and her laugh must be rinkly or maybe it's warm and chuckly, but whatever it is, Death laughs a lot. We talk about the 'miracle of birth' but what about the 'miracle of death'? We have the science of death pretty much figured out, but death's magic and inevitability have been feared and ignored for a long time now. What if Death is a person?

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat back on his austere chair with the sudden bright smile of a very busy person at the end of a crowded day who's suddenly found in his schedule a reminder saying: 7.00-7.05, Be Cheerful and Relaxed and a People Person.

I don't know whether to be proud or appalled that danger, blood and death inspire you so.

According to the history books, the decisive battle that ended the Ankh-Morpork Civil War was fought between two handfuls of bone-weary men in a swamp early one misty morning and, although one side claimed victory, ended with a practical score of Humans 0, ravens 1,000, which is the case with most battles.

It was Friday tomorrow and still Eden was avoiding him like he was a Bieber fan at a Korn concert.

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles. But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes “Boots” theory of socioeconomic unfairness.

Noah's mom and dad were academics and socially inept, so Noah had never invited her over to his house because his parents wouldn't like it. And Eden had never invited Noah over to her house because she didn't want him to die.

It had the thick texture of authentic Ankh water – too stiff to drink, too runny to plough.

Mercury. Lead. Antimony. A cresent moon sits at the nape of her neck; and Egyptian ankh near her collarbone. There are other symbols as well: Norse runes, Chinese characters. "It is part of who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

She gazed out across the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork and reasoned like this: writing was only the words that people said, squeezed between layers of paper until they were fossilized (fossils were well known on the Discworld, great spiraled shells and badly constructed creatures that were left over from the time when the Creator hadn't really decided what He wanted to make and was, as it were, just idly messing around with the Pleistocene). And the words people said were just shadow of real things. But some things were too big to be really trapped in words, and even the words were too powerful to be completely tamed by writing.

It was pretty late and the streets were quiet so she was almost sure no one had seen her drag the soul eater into the alley... where she cut his head off with a samurai sword. God, she loved her life.

He said, "Were he only like his sister—what a difference that would make! For there never was such a sweet and gentle lady! I hear her footsteps, as she goes about the world. I hear the swish-swish-swish of her silken gown and the jingle-jangle of the silver chain about her neck. Her smile is full of comfort and her eyes are kind and happy! How I long to see her!" "Who, sir?" asked Paramore, puzzled. "Why, his sister, John. His sister.

... the bestselling novel taking the Ankh-Morpork literary world by storm was dedicated to Commander Samuel Vimes. The title of the book was Pride and Extreme Prejudice.

In fact, if there were such a thing as an international thieving contest, Ankh-Morpork would bring home the trophy and probably everyone's wallets.

Eden," Cyrus snapped bringing her back to the present. "I have a sword pointed at you. Will you please focus

This was, after all, Ankh-Morpork, where a man walked free even if he was not, strictly speaking, a man.

He was known to Ankh-Morpork's professional underclass as a thoughtful, patient man, and considered something of an intellectual because some of his tattoos were spelled right.

The barricade was taking some while to dismantle. Chair legs and planks and bedsteads and doors and baulks of timber had settled into a tangled mass. Since every piece belonged to someone, and Ankh-Morpork people care about that sort of thing, it was being dismantled by collective argument.

Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind, and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.

Ankh-Morpork people considered that spelling was a sort of optional extra. They believed in it the same way they believed in punctuation; it didn't matter where you put it, so long as it was there.

Ankh-Morpork people considered that spelling was a sort of optional extra. They believed in it in the same way they believed in punctuation; it didn’t matter where you put it so long as it was there.

He found that he had this sudden desperate longing for the fuming, smoky streets of Ankh-Morpork, which was always at its best in the spring, when the gummy sheen on the turbid waters of the Ankh River had a special iridescence and the eaves were full of birdsong, or at least birds coughing rhythmically

Without warning a lady appeared. She came from the direction of Friday-street, for she had just been with Mr. Newbolt. She strode capably through the snow. She wore a black silk gown and something very queer swung from a silver chain about her neck. Her smile was full of comfort and her eyes were kind and happy. She was just as Mr. Newbolt had described. And the name of this lady was Death.

When the humours were handed out, Ankh-Morpork got the one for joking and Quirm had to do make do with their expertise in fine dining and love-making.

And we don't often get any wading birds in the River Ankh, mainly because the pollution would eat their legs away and anyway, it's easier for them to walk on the surface.

By and large, the only skill the alchemists of Ankh-Morpork had discovered so far was the ability to turn gold into less gold.

Vimes, listening with his mouth open, wondered why the hell it was that dwarfs believed that they had no religion and no priests. Being a dwarf was a religion. People went into the dark for the good of the clan, and heard things, and were changed, and came back to tell… And then, fifty years ago, a dwarf tinkering in Ankh-Morpork had found that if you put a simple fine mesh over your lantern flame it'd burn blue in the presence of the gas but wouldn't explode. It was a discovery of immense value to the good of dwarfkind and, as so often happens with such discoveries, almost immediately led to a war. "And afterwards there were two kinds of dwarf," said Cheery sadly. "There's the Copperheads, who all use the lamp and the patent gas exploder, and the Schmaltzbergers, who stick to the old ways. Of course we're all dwarfs," she said, "but relations are strained.

By now the whole of downtown Morpork was alight, and the richer and worthier citizens of Ankh on the far bank were bravely responding to the situation by feverishly demolishing the bridges.

In every lifetime there is a moment. A moment so clear, so profoundly unique; that it stands out against billions of other moments. When you find a moment such as this one, you pay extra close attention to it. It will usually contain something that defines you in the future. (The Children of Ankh)

Er war direkt, ehrlich, gutmütig und in jeder Hinsicht ehrenhaft. In Ankh-Morpork hieß so etwas normalerweise »Dummheit«, und unter gewöhnlichen Umständen hätte er damit die Überlebenschance einer Qualle in einem Hochofen.

Ankh-Morpork, the melting pot of the world, which occasionally runs foul of lumps that don't melt.

In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium in Ankh-Morpork, all the whoopee cushions trumpeted in a doleful harmony;

People kept on talking about the true king of Ankh-Morpork, but history taught a cruel lesson. It said - often in words of blood - that the true king was the one who got crowned."  

Why temples? thought Moist, as he looked up at the facade of the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork. Why do they always build banks to look like temples, despite the fact that several major religions (a) are canonically against what they do inside and (b) bank there?

Retrophrenology: It works like this. Phrenology, as everyone knows, is a way of reading someone's character, aptitude and abilities by examining the bumps and hollows on their head. Therefore - according to the kind of logical thinking that characterizes the Ankh-Morpork mind - it should be possible to mould someone's character by giving them carefully graded bumps in all the right places. You can go into a shop and order an artistic temperament with a tendency to introspection and a side order of hysteria. What you actually get is hit on the head with a selection of different size mallets, but it creates employment and keeps the money in circulation, and that's the main thing.

The snow had done what even wizards and the Watch couldn’t do, which was clean up Ankh-Morpork. It hadn’t had time to get dirty. In the morning it’d probably look as though the city had been covered in coffee meringue, but for now it mounded the bushes and trees in pure white.

Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, poked at the ink in his inkwell. There was ice in it. "Don't you even have a proper fire?" said Hughnon Ridcully, High Priest of Blind Io and unofficial spokesman for the city's religious establishment. "I mean, I'm not one for stuffy rooms, but it's freezing in here!" "Brisk, certainly," said Lord Vetinari. "It's odd, but the ice isn't as dark as the rest of the ink. What causes that, do you think?" "Science, probably," said Hughnon vaguely.

Say what you liked about the people of Ankh-Morpork they had always been staunchly independent, yielding to no man their right to rob, defraud, embezzle and murder on an equal basis. This seemed absolutely right, to Vimes’s way of thinking. There was no difference at all between the richest man and the poorest beggar, apart from the fact that the former had lots of money, food, power, fine clothes, and good health. But at least he wasn’t any better. Just richer, fatter, more powerful, better dressed and healthier. It had been like that for hundreds of years.

Then Cheery Littlebottom had arrived in Ankh-Morpork and had seen that there were men out there who did not wear chain mail or leather underwear, but did wear interesting colors and exciting makeup, and these men were called "women." And in the little bullet head the thought had arisen: "Why not me?" Now she was being denounced in cellars and dwarf bars across the city as the first dwarf in Ankh-Morpork to wear a skirt. It was hard-wearing brown leather and as objectively erotic as a piece of wood but, as some older dwarfs would point out, somewhere under there were his knees* *They couldn't bring themselves to utter the word "her.

You see," said Colon, "thieves are organized here. I mean, it's official. They're allowed a certain amount of thieving. Not that they do much these days, mind you. If you pay them a little premium every year they give you a card and leave you alone. Saves time and effort all around." "And all thieves are members?" said Angua. "Oh, yes," said Carrot. "Can't go thieving in Ankh-Morpork without a Guild permit. Not unless you've got a special talent." "Why? What happens? What talent?" she said. "Well, being able to survive being hung upside down from one of the gates with your ears nailed to your knees," said Carrot.

I especially treasured my glimpses of Mother, Queen Cleopatra VII. She sat on a golden throne, looking as resplendent as one of the giant marble statues guarding the tombs of the Old Ones. Diamonds twinkled in a jungle of black braids on her ceremonial wig. She wore a diadem with three rearing snakes and a golden broad collar, shining with lapis lazuli, carnelian, and emeralds, over her golden, form-fitting pleated gown. In one hand, she held a golden ankh of life, while the other clasped the striped crook and flail of her divine rulership. Her stillness radiated power, like a lioness pausing before the pounce. It left me breathless with awe.

A small crowd was collecting. A small crowd collected very easily in Ankh-Morpork. As a city, it had some of the most accomplished spectators in the universe. They’d watch anything, especially if there was any possibility of anyone getting hurt in an amusing way.

It was a still night, tinted with the promise of dawn. A crescent moon was just setting. Ankh-Morpork, largest city in the lands around the Circle Sea, slept. That statement is not really true On the one hand, those parts of the city which normally concerned themselves with, for example, selling vegetables, shoeing horses, carving exquisite small jade ornaments, changing money and making tables, on the whole, slept. Unless they had insomnia. Or had got up in the night, as it might be, to go to the lavatory. On the other hand, many of the less law-abiding citizens were wide awake and, for instance, climbing through windows that didn’t belong to them, slitting throats, mugging one another, listening to loud music in smoky cellars and generally having a lot more fun. But most of the animals were asleep, except for the rats. And the bats, too, of course. As far as the insects were concerned… The point is that descriptive writing is very rarely entirely accurate and during the reign of Olaf Quimby II as Patrician of Ankh some legislation was passed in a determined attempt to put a stop to this sort of thing and introduce some honesty into reporting. Thus, if a legend said of a notable hero that “all men spoke of his prowess” any bard who valued his life would add hastily “except for a couple of people in his home village who thought he was a liar, and quite a lot of other people who had never really heard of him.” Poetic simile was strictly limited to statements like “his mighty steed was as fleet as the wind on a fairly calm day, say about Force Three,” and any loose talk about a beloved having a face that launched a thousand ships would have to be backed by evidence that the object of desire did indeed look like a bottle of champagne.

There was not a lot that could be done to make Morpork a worse place. A direct hit by a meteorite, for example, would count as gentrification.

The lights flickered, the pain went away, and her mother was holding her, singing ‘Sleep sweet sleep’. (The Children of Ankh series) Kim Cormack

I have a girlfriend, Kayn. Her name is Chloe. She just doesn’t know it yet,” He smiled; he couldn’t help himself, he knew it irritated her to no end. (The Children of Ankh series)

She slept a dreamless sleep free of dragons for she had slain them once again. The Children of Ankh

What’re you doing in Ankh-Morpork territorial waters, you camel-eating devil?

Now pull back briefly from the dripping streets of Ankh-Morpork, pan across the morning mists of the Disc, and focus in again on a young man heading for the city with all the openness, sincerity, and innocence of purpose of an iceberg drifting into a major shipping lane.

There’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Discworld cities. At least, there’s a saying that there’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork. And it’s wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way. Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cunning ones try to excuse it. They say, well, maybe it is smelly, maybe it is overcrowded, maybe it is a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fires off and stabled a herd of incontinent cows there for a year, but you must admit that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic life. And this is true, even though it is poets that are saying it. But people who aren't poets say, so what? Mattresses tend to be full of life too, and no one writes odes to them. Citizens hate living there and, if they have to move away on business or adventure or, more usually, until some statute of limitations runs out, can’t wait to get back so they can enjoy hating living there some more. They put stickers on the backs of their carts saying "Anhk-Morpork—Loathe It or Leave It.

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of okay for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles. But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes ‘Boots’ theory of socio-economic unfairness.

Hay quienes afirman que en Ankh-Morpork una vida no vale nada. No pueden estar más equivocados, naturalmente, ya que el precio de una vida no para de subir. Morir, en cambio, no te costará una moneda.

Rats had featured largely in the history of Ankh-Morpork. Shortly before the Patrician came to power there was a terrible plague of rats. The city council countered it by offering twenty pence for every rat tail. This did, for a week or two, reduce the number of rats—and then people were suddenly queing up with tails, the city treasury was being drained, and no one seemed to be doing much work. And there still seemed to be a lot of rats around. Lord Vetinari had listened carefully while the problem was explained, and had solved the thing with one memorable phrase which said a lot about him, about the folly of bounty offers, and about the natural instinct of Ankh-Morporkians in any situation involving money: “Tax the rat farms.

What’s Ephebe like?” said Ptraci. “I’ve never been there. Apparently it’s ruled by a Tyrant.” “I hope we don’t meet him, then” Teppic shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said. “They have a new Tyrant every five years and they do something to him first.” He hesitated. “I think they ee-lect him.” “Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?” “Er.” “You know. To make them stop fighting and be more peaceful.” Teppic winced. “To be honest, I’m not sure,” he said. “But I don’t think so. They’ve got something they do it with, I think it’s called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one—” He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it anyway. “One man, one vet.” “That’s for the eelecting, then?” He shrugged. It might be, for all he knew. “The point is, though, that everyone can do it. They’re very proud of it. Everyone has—” he hesitated again, certain now that things were amiss—“the vet. Except for women, of course. And children. And criminals. And slaves. And stupid people. And people of foreign extractions. And people disapproved of for, er, various reasons. And lost of other people. But everyone apart from them. It’s a very enlightened civilization.

It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest.

The relationship between the University and the Patrician, absolute ruler and nearly benevolent dictator of Ankh-Morpork, was a complex and subtle one. The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city. The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else. The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed allegiance to no mortal man. The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly. The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn't put a tax on knowledge. The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged. The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil authority. The Patrician said that he was not proposing to remain civil for long. The wizards said, what about easy terms? The Patrician said he was talking about easy terms. They wouldn't want to know about the hard terms. The wizards said that there was a ruler back in , oh, it would be the Century of the Dragonfly, who had tried to tell the University what to do. The Patrician could come and have a look at him if he liked. The Patrician said that he would. He truly would In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes, they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, let's say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis, no strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-acceptable purposes.

In front of the group was a legless man on a small wheeled trolley, who was singing at the top of his voice and banging two saucepans together. His name was Arnold Sideways. Pushing him along was Coffin Henry, whose croaking progress through an entirely different song was punctuated by bouts of off-the-beat coughing. He was accompanied by a perfectly ordinary-looking manin torn, dirty and yet expensive looking clothing, whose pleasant tenor voice was drowned out by the quaking of a duck on his head. He answered to the name of Duck Man, although he never seemed to understand why, or why he was always surrounded by people who seemed to see ducks where no ducks could be. And finally, being towed along by a small grey dog on a string, was Foul Ole Ron, generally regarded in Ankh-Morpork as the deranged beggars' deranged beggar. He was probably incapable of singing, but at least he was attempting to swear in time to the beat, or beats. The wassailers stopped and watched them in horror. People have always had the urge to sing and clang things at the dark stub of the year, when all sorts of psychic nastiness has taken advantage of the long grey days and the deep shadows to lurk and breed. Lately people had taken to singing harmoniously, which rather lost the affect. Those who really understood just clanged something and shouted. The beggars were not in fact this well versed in folkloric practice. They were just making a din in the well-founded hope that people would give them money to stop. It was just possible to make out consensus song in there somewhere. "Hogswatch is coming, The pig is getting fat, Please put a dollar in the old man's hat If you ain't got a dollar a penny will do-" "And if you ain't got a penny," Foul Ole Ron yodeled, solo, 'Then- fghfgh yffg mfmfmf..." The Duck man had, with great Presence of mind, clamped a hand over Ron's mouth.

Vimes stared. It was true about the dogs. There didn't seem to be quite so many mooching around these days, and that was a fact. But he'd visited a few dwarf bars with Carrot, and knew that dwarfs would indeed eat dog, but only of they couldn't get rat. And ten thousand dwarfs eating continuously with knife, fork, and shovel wouldn't make a dent in Ankh-Morpork's rat population. It was a major feature in dwarvish letters back home: come on, everyone, and bring the ketchup.

There are energies in this world which have been around for aeons. Not only witnessing the changes of coats and fashions, but the shifts of coasts and landscapes. The span may seem overwhelming or be unimaginable from the point of view of a single transient lifetime, but it is just energy dancing through time and space, manifesting tangible miracles. Human beings are one such miracle.

There’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Discworld cities. At least, there’s a saying that there’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork. And it’s wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way.

Vimes shrugged. “That’s it, then,” he said, and turned away. “Throw the book at him, Carrot.” “Right, sir.” Vimes remembered too late. Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors. They also have a very good aim. The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh and Morpork caught the secretary on the forehead.

Arnold started to investigate the charitable donations as they maneuvered his trolley through the slush and drifts. “Tastes…sort of familiar,” he said. “Familiar like what?” “Like mud and old boots.” “Garn! That’s posh grub, that is.” “Yeah, yeah…” Arnold chewed for a while. “You don’t think we’ve become posh all of a sudden?” “Dunno. You posh, Ron?” “Buggrit.” “Yep. Sounds posh to me.” The snow began to settle gently on the River Ankh. “Still…Happy New Year, Arnold.” “Happy New Year, Duck Man. And your duck.” “What duck?” “Happy New Year, Henry.” “Happy New Year, Ron.” “Buggrem!” “And god bless us, every one,” said Arnold Sideways. The curtain of snow hid them from view. “Which god?” “Dunno. What’ve you got?

Touching the copper of the ankh reminded me of another necklace, a necklace long since lost under the dust of time. That necklace had been simpler: only a string of beads etched with tiny ankhs. But my husband had brought it to me the morning of our wedding, sneaking up to our house just after dawn in a gesture uncharacteristically bold for him. I had chastised him for the indiscretion. "What are you doing? You're going to see me this afternoon... and then every day after that!" "I had to give you these before the wedding." He held up the string of beads. "They were my mother's. I want you to have them, to wear them today.” He leaned forward, placing the beads around my neck. As his fingers brushed my skin, I felt something warm and tingly run through my body. At the tender age of fifteen, I hadn't exactly understood such sensations, though I was eager to explore them. My wiser self today recognized them as the early stirrings of lust, and . . . well, there had been something else there too. Something else that I still didn't quite comprehend. An electric connection, a feeling that we were bound into something bigger than ourselves. That our being together was inevitable. "There," he'd said, once the beads were secure and my hair brushed back into place. "Perfect.” He said nothing else after that. He didn't need to. His eyes told me all I needed to know, and I shivered. Until Kyriakos, no man had ever given me a second glance. I was Marthanes' too-tall daughter after all, the one with the sharp tongue who didn't think before speaking. (Shape-shifting would eventually take care of one of those problems but not the other.) But Kyriakos had always listened to me and watched me like I was someone more, someone tempting and desirable, like the beautiful priestesses of Aphrodite who still carried on their rituals away from the Christian priests. I wanted him to touch me then, not realizing just how much until I caught his hand suddenly and unexpectedly. Taking it, I placed it around my waist and pulled him to me. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't pull back. We were almost the same height, making it easy for his mouth to seek mine out in a crushing kiss. I leaned against the warm stone wall behind me so that I was pressed between it and him. I could feel every part of his body against mine, but we still weren't close enough. Not nearly enough. Our kissing grew more ardent, as though our lips alone might close whatever aching distance lay between us. I moved his hand again, this time to push up my skirt along the side of one leg. His hand stroked the smooth flesh there and, without further urging, slid over to my inner thigh. I arched my lower body toward his, nearly writhing against him now, needing him to touch me everywhere. "Letha? Where are you at?” My sister's voice carried over the wind; she wasn't nearby but was close enough to be here soon. Kyriakos and I broke apart, both gasping, pulses racing. He was looking at me like he'd never seen me before. Heat burned in his gaze. "Have you ever been with anyone before?" he asked wonderingly. I shook my head. "How did you ... I never imagined you doing that...” "I learn fast.” He grinned and pressed my hand to his lips. "Tonight," he breathed. "Tonight we ...” "Tonight," I agreed. He backed away then, eyes still smoldering. "I love you. You are my life.” "I love you too." I smiled and watched him go.

Oh, in my younger days I spent some time in Uberwald,” said the Patrician. “In those days rich young men from Ankh-Morpork used to go on what we called the Grand Sneer, visiting far-flung countries and cities in order to see at first hand how inferior they were. Or so it seemed, at any rate. Oh yes…I spent some time in Uberwald…” It

In the woods lay a bleeding angel in all her glory. Her arms posed gracefully above her head and her hair soaked in the mud, the blood and feces in which she lay. Dying, fading into the other realm, her form christened by the rain as though the trees had begun to weep upon her in sadness for the brutality she had endured. (The Children of Ankh series)

You couldn't be a real copper in Ankh-Morpork and stay sane. You had to care. Anda caring in Ankh-Morpork was like opening a tin of meat in the middle of a piranha school.

Corporal Carrot, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat down in his nightshirt, took up his pencil, sucked the end for a moment, and then wrote:

Hayatımda savaşmadan gitmesine izin vermeyeceğim bir şey var artık.

Lexy lay curled up in Greys arms on the couch and slept a dreamless sleep free of dragons for she had slain them once again. The Children of Ankh series

Damn this human who had come into her life and made himself so important to her; had made coming to terms with her inner monster that much more difficult to bear.

In Ankh-Morpork even the shit have a street to itself,” said Detritus, awe and wonder in his voice. “Truly, this a land of opportunity.

Unlike adults, Phil said, children had an innocence that was refreshing. However, the human world had started to pollute them—like they did with oceans.

And the city itself.’ John was not done yet. ‘Where have we seen that before? No? Well, I’ll tell you it’s Ankh Mor—

Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colors and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.

The one who wins even after death is known as Tut-Ankh-Amun.

Stabbity, stabbity, stab. That will be two dollars.’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘that’s not how assassination works. You do not charge the corpse.’ So she thinks about it and says, ‘My friend Keith,’ (another small munchkin salutes) ‘he’s from the Guild of Alchemists and will bring you alive again for three dollars.’ So with rigor mortis setting in, I stuck my hand in my pocket and gave them some of the fake convention money and then she smiled sweetly and said, ‘And for five dollars, I won’t kill you again.’ It was amazing to see how this Ankh-Morpork system evolved during the con.

Morporkians are in no doubt that Vetinari is firmly in charge of the city; the political system of Ankh-Morpork is described as "One Man, One Vote," in which Vetinari alone is the Man, and he has the Vote.

It’s hillbilly urine; we had better get home before they come to eat us.” Kevin said pointing towards home proving if there was ever any doubt that he had no acting ability at all. (The Children of Ankh series)

Sam Vimes, I’ve dreamed of visiting Koom Valley all my life, so don’t you think for one moment you’re gallivanting off to see it and leave me at home!” “I don’t gallivant! I’ve never gallivanted. I don’t know how to vant! I don’t even have a galli! But there’s going to be a war there soon!” “Then I shall tell them we’re not involved!” said Sybil calmly. “That won’t work!” “Then it won’t work in Ankh-Morpork, either,” said Sybil,

And you didn't tell me?" He rolled his eyes. "When could I have told you? The day you weren't speaking to me, or the day after when you still weren't speaking to me?" Ugh he was such a pain in the- Just a complete and utter ass with- Infuriating, irritating, treacherous- "OK." October watched her wide-eyed. "I was wrong. That eye colour is working for you...if you could drown and suffocate him with that look I think you would.

The days that passed had begun to melt together into weeks and months, creating a twisted mosaic of memories in her mind. Her dreams travelled a tortuous path between what had actually happened, and what could have been.

Hey, I’ll have you know, that I have been going commando since my first wedgie in grade five; once they grab for underwear, and don’t find any, they get very afraid and back right off.” He chuckled.(The Children of Ankh series)

Kevin was sitting on the railing waiting patiently and looking up at the sky with his mouth agape in a totally comical way. Kayn walked up beside him and teased, “Trying to catch flies?” (The Children of Ankh series) Kim Cormack

the good people of Ankh-Morpork feeling that it was unpatriotic to sing songs about how patriotic you were, taking the view that someone singing a song about how patriotic they were was either up to something or a Head of State.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat back on his austere chair with the sudden bright smile of a very busy person at the end of a crowded day who’s suddenly found in his schedule a reminder saying: 7.00-7.05, Be Cheerful and Relaxed and a People Person.

Ankh-Morpork itself was generally considered as wicked a city as you could hope to find in a year of shore leaves, and seemed to have avoided any kind of supernatural vengeance, although it was always possible that it had taken place and no-one had noticed.

Ankh-Morpork jest tak pełne życia, jak dojrzewający ser w upalny dzień, głośne jak klątwa w katedrze, jaskrawe jak plama oleju, barwne jak siniak i szumiące od działalności, interesów, ruchu i czystej, rozbuchanej aktywności niczym zdechły pies na kopcu termitów.

It’s remarkable how much we owe to symbols,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “Not just in communication, but in the way they shape collective memory. Think of the ankh in Egypt, or the caduceus in Mesopotamia. They weren’t just symbols; they were cultural cornerstones.

Luckier rain fell on upland sheep, or whispered gently over forests, or pattered somewhat incestuously into the sea. Rain that fell on Ankh-Morpork, though, was rain that was in trouble. They did terrible things to water, in Ankh-Morpork. Being drunk was only the start of its problems.

Pearl of cities! This is not a completely accurate description, of course—it was not round and shiny—but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc.

Oh, in my younger days I spent some time in Uberwald," said the Patrician. "In those days rich young men from Ankh-Morpork used to go on what we called the Grand Sneer, visiting far-flung countries and cities in order to see at first hand how inferior they were. Or so it seemed, at any rate.

And now you have to understand it’s not about the dwarfs, or the humans, or the trolls, it’s about the people, and that’s where the troublesome Lord Vetinari wins the game. In Ankh-Morpork you can be whoever you want to be and sometimes people laugh and sometimes they clap, and mostly and beautifully, they don’t really care.

True, but I’d argue that it’s the application of those symbols that truly matters. Take the Egyptian ankh, for example, with its T-shape topped by a droplet-shaped loop. It wasn’t just a spiritual icon; it also appeared in practical contexts, such as architectural designs. The ancients weren’t merely dreamers – they were engineers.

No enemies had ever taken Ankh-Morpork. Well, technically they had, quite often; the city welcomed free-spending barbarian invaders, but somehow the puzzled raiders always found, after a few days, that they didn’t own their own horses any more, and within a couple of months they were just another minority group with its own graffiti and food shops.

The coach passed by many buildings of this sort, which would no doubt be little palaces to the occupants, who had escaped from Cockbill Street and Pigsty Hill and all the other neighbourhoods where people still dreamed that they could ‘better themselves’, an achievement that might be attained, oh happy day, when they had ‘a little place of their own’. It was an inspiring dream, if you didn’t look too deeply into words like mortgage and repayments and repossession and bankruptcy, and the lower middle classes of Ankh-Morpork, who saw themselves as being trodden on by the class above and illegally robbed by the one below, lined up with borrowed money to purchase, by instalments, their own little Oi Dong

Her vision came into focus and again this time the trees crackled and mocked her. You’re going to die you silly bitch, they seemed to chant. They waved their branches, howling, as the wind whistled through the trails which had suddenly grown icy cold. Kayn’s mind snapped back to reality; she had lost a lot of blood…none of this was real. Children of Ankh

The story erupted from his mouth like vomit.

Against the dark screen of night, Vimes had a vision of Ankh-Morpork. It wasn’t a city, it was a process, a weight on the world that distorted the land for hundreds of miles around. People who’d never see it in their whole life nevertheless spent that life working for it. Thousands and thousands of green acres were part of it, forests were part of it. It drew in and consumed… …and gave back the dung from its pens, and the soot from its chimneys, and steel, and saucepans, and all the tools by which its food was made. And also clothes, and fashions, and ideas, and interesting vices, songs, and knowledge, and something which, if looked at in the right light, was called civilization. That was what civilization meant. It meant the city. Was

Society, as we know it today, was founded a long time ago on a certain premise, within a particular array of energies. Over time, everything that was built upon that foundation have been upgrades.

Kayn began to speak as if she were reading his obituary. “I can see the paper now; it would read something like this; Kevin Smith was a wonderful boy so smart and good looking but a little clumsy. Had he simply tied up his shoes he would have never tripped down the stairs and found himself impaled on a janitor’s broom. Remember kids; tie your shoes; safety first.” (The Children of Ankh series)

Lord Vetinari, as supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, could in theory summon the Archchancellor of Unseen University to his presence and, indeed, have him executed if he failed to obey. On the other hand Mustrum Ridcully, as head of the college of wizards, had made it clear in polite but firm ways that he could turn him into a small amphibian and, indeed, start jumping around the room on a pogo stick.

Are you saying people aren’t interested in the truth?” “Listen, what’s true to a lot of people is that they need the money for the rent by the end of the week. Look at Mr. Ron and his friends. What’s the truth mean to them? They live under a bridge!” She held up a piece of lined paper, crammed edge to edge with the careful looped handwriting of someone for whom holding a pen was not a familiar activity. “This is a report of the annual meeting of the Ankh-Morpork Caged Birds Society,” she said. “They’re just ordinary people who breed canaries and things as a hobby. Their chairman lives next door to me, which is why he gave me this. This stuff is important to him! My goodness, but it’s dull. It’s all about Best of Breed and some changes in the rules about parrots which they argued about for two hours. But the people who were arguing were people who mostly spend their day mincing meat or sawing wood and basically leading little lives that are controlled by other people, do you see? They’ve got no say in who runs the city but they can damn well see to it that cockatoos aren’t lumped in with parrots. It’s not their fault. It’s just how things are. Why are you sitting there with your mouth open like that?

The humming of Kayn’s blood that coursed through her veins seemed to sing along to the steady, almost tribal, beat of her feet as they pounded rhythmically into the dirt. A veil of earth flowed behind her; she resembled a flaxen haired angel attempting to outrun a cloud. The cloud of dust seemed to follow her for a moment or two longer than it should, with not one whisper of wind in the afternoon air. (The Children of Ankh series)

Because the fact was that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, murder was not a commonplace occurrence in Ankh-Morpork. There were, it was true, assassinations. And as aforesaid there were many ways one could inadvertently commit suicide. And there were occasional domestic fracas on a Saturday night as people sought a cheaper alternative to divorce. There were all these things, but at least they had a reason, however unreasonable.

Santi was a behemoth in the art world, and being known solely by one's first name was a level of fame achieved only by an elite few... people like Napoleon, Galileo, and Jesus... and, of course, the demigods Langdon now heard blaring from Harvard dormitories - Sting, Madonna, Jewel, and the artist formerly known as Prince, who had changed his name to the symbol ?, causing Langdon to dub him 'The Tau Cross With Intersecting Hermaphroditic Ankh.

The Ankh-Morpork Central Post Office had a gaunt frontage. It was a building designed for a purpose. It was, therefore, more or less, a big box to employ people in, with two wings at the rear, which enclosed the big stable yard. Some cheap pillars had been sliced in half and stuck on the outside, some niches had been carved for some miscellaneous stone nymphs, some stone urns had been ranged along the parapet, and thus Architecture had been created.

Funny thing," said Cohen, "but I heard tell once that down in Ankh-Morpork there's some watchman who's really heir to the throne but keeps quiet about it because he likes being a watchman ..." Oh dear, thought the Horde. Kings in disguise ... that was Code material, right there. Carrot met Cohen's gaze. "Never heard of him," he said. "To die for forty-three dollars a month," said Cohen, holding the gaze, "a man's got to be very, very stupid or very, very brave ...

You have never loved. That means your mind and your heart were preoccupied with other things, never awakening love within. You only create apparitions and give them pretty names. Your whole life until now you’ve been chasing apparitions, naming apparitions, interpreting apparitions, passing on and imposing apparitions. You have been too busy with them to ever love anyone or anything.” She paused once again, providing an air. “Merkaba, breathe… and understand. The complete absence of love is unforgivable.

Vimes felt quite light-hearted as he walked up Scoone Avenue. He was aware that there was an inner Vimes screaming his head off. He ignored him. You couldn’t be a real copper in Ankh-Morpork and stay sane. You had to care. And caring in Ankh-Morpork was like opening a tin of meat in the middle of a piranha school. Everyone dealt with it in their own way. Colon never thought about it, and Nobby didn’t worry about it, and the new ones hadn’t been in long enough to be worn down by it, and Carrot…was just himself.

Oh dear. And what is Mr. Scrope saying?” “Apparently he says he’s looking forward to a new era in our history and will put Ankh-Morpork back on the path of responsible citizenship, sir.” “Is that the same as the lobsters?” “It’s political, sir. Apparently he wants a return to the values and traditions that made the city great, sir.” “Does he know what those values and traditions were?” said Vimes, aghast. “I assume so, sir,” said Carrot, keeping a straight face. “Oh my gods. I’d rather take a chance on the lobsters.

Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it’s the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it’s just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colorful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.

Fire roared through the bifurcated city of Ankh-Morpork. Where it licked the Wizards’ Quarter it burned blue and green and was even laced with strange sparks of the eighth color, octarine; where its outriders found their way into the vats and oil stores all along Merchant Street it progressed in a series of blazing fountains and explosions; in the streets of the perfume blenders it burned with a sweetness; where it touched bundles of rare and dry herbs in the storerooms of the drugmasters it made men go mad and talk to God.

They had been in Ankh-Morpork for three days and Granny was beginning to enjoy herself, much to her surprise. She had found them lodgings in The Shades, an ancient part of the city whose inhabitants were largely nocturnal and never enquired about one another's business because curiosity not only killed the cat but threw it in the river with weights tied to its feet. The lodgings were on the top floor next to the well-guarded premises of a respectable dealer in stolen property because, as Granny had heard, good fences make good neighbours.

But what’s worth more than gold?’ ‘Practically everything. You, for example. Gold is heavy. Your weight in gold is not very much gold at all. Aren’t you worth more than that?’ Sacharissa looked momentarily flustered, to Moist’s glee. ‘Well, in a manner of speaking—’ ‘The only manner of speaking worth talking about,’ said Moist flatly. ‘The world is full of things worth more than gold. But we dig the damn stuff up and then bury it in a different hole. Where’s the sense in that? What are we, magpies? Is it all about the gleam? Good heavens, potatoes are worth more than gold!’ ‘Surely not!’ ‘If you were shipwrecked on a desert island, what would you prefer, a bag of potatoes or a bag of gold?’ ‘Yes, but a desert island isn’t Ankh-Morpork!’ ‘And that proves gold is only valuable because we agree it is, right? It’s just a dream. But a potato is always worth a potato, anywhere. A knob of butter and a pinch of salt and you’ve got a meal, anywhere. Bury gold in the ground and you’ll be worrying about thieves for ever. Bury a potato and in due season you could be looking at a dividend of a thousand per cent.

If the Bennu bird could be viewed in relation with the Ibis, it would explain why Thoth has it on his head. The symbolism has nothing to do with the Sun or any divine role it has, but on the contrary, the Sun is being subjugated by Thoth in one hand and a scepter on the other. The proof that this emblem means that the Sun had been conquered therein, is that Akhenaten's depictions show the fork end of the scepter handing over the Ankh directly from the Sun in total contrast to the stance of Thoth who possesses the Authority of 'was' which literally means 'overpower' to extract the Ankh from the Sun as he wishes.

...Her neyse, Cyrus ve Val nerede?" Emma gözlerini devirdi. "Noah, sana onu böyle çağırmamanı söylemiştim. Tanrı aşkına, kadın iki bin yaşında bir savaşçı, Denny's de çalışan bir garson değil." Noah, sırıttı, kanepenin içine iyice gömülürken kollarını göğsünün üstünde birleştirdi. Uzun boylu, uzun bacaklı esmer kadını düşününce sırıtması şehvetli bir sırıtışa dönüştü. "Hey, o bana otuz yaşındaki seksi bir kadın gibi görünüyor ama." Annesi kafasını iki yana sallayarak homurdandı. "O seni canlı canlı yer çocuğum." "Doğru. Ama bu benim hoşuma gidebilir." "Ah." Emma suratını ekşitip Noah'ın kafasına vurdu. "Annenle böyle konuşma.

No story should ever be considered as final, nor a rigid telling, but as a prompt to either investigate or meditate upon it. In other words, the story, provided it has at least some discernible depth, ought to be a medium, a prompt to one’s higher self to look beyond the naked narrative. Throughout the ages, until recently, the words story and history were interchangeable in meaning. Storial is now an obsolete word, but if something was, what you would call, historically accurate, then it was storial — not historical. Stories and histories entangle. Stories can disentangle, and liberate. This is one of the keys to conscious presence. One of the keys to lucidity. Stories have that potential, they carry that power within them. Whether they are used to entangle, entertain, or disentangle, depends on the intent and the wisdom of the storyteller. This is an essential truth, valid for any story that has ever been told. In choosing to let go of the stories which have entangled you into a lilliputian presence, you make room for the story which can not only dis-entangle, but expand your capacity as an individual, and bring you into the presence of ultimate realization. That is the might of the story. Remember this. As you would take a key and place it in your pocket, take this information, fully aware and conscious of taking it, and save it.

Rincewind picked up a spare paper and read it. It was headed: Examination for the post of Assistant Night-Soil Operative for the District of W'ung. He read question one. It required candidates to write a sixteen-line poem on evening mist over the reed beds. Question two seemed to be about the use of metaphor in some book Rincewind had never heard of. Then there was a question about music . . . Rincewind turned the paper over a couple of times. There didn't seem to be any mention, anywhere, of words like 'compost' or 'bucket' or 'wheelbarrow'. But presumably all this produced a better class of person than the Ankh-Morpork system, which asked just one question: 'Got your own shovel, have you?

He'd taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork. At least, that's how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like "Lupin Squiggle, Sec'y, pp". Still, if it wasn't actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general.

One interesting side-effect of the fire in Ankh-Morpork concerns the inn-sewer-ants policy, which left the city through the ravaged roof of the Broken Drum, was wafted high into the discworld's atmosphere on the ensuing thermal, and came to earth several days and a few thousand miles away on an uloruaha bush in the beTrobi islands. The simple, laughing islanders subsequently worshipped it as a god, much to the amusement of their more sophisticated neighbours. Strangely enough the rainfall and harvests in the next few years were almost supernaturally abundant, and this led to a research team being despatched to the islands by the Minor Religions faculty of Unseen University. Their verdict was that it only went to show. *

The land around Ankh-Morpork is fertile and largely given over to the cabbage fields that help to give the city its distinctive odor. The gray light of pre-dawn unrolled over the blue-green expanse, and around a couple of farmers who were making an early start on the spinach harvest. They looked up, not at a sound, but at a travelling point of silence where sound ought to have been. It was a man and a woman and something like a size five man in a size twelve fur coat, all in a chariot that flickered as it moved. It bowled along the road toward Holy Wood and was soon out of sight. A minute or two later it was followed by a wheelchair. Its axle glowed red-hot. It was full of people screaming at one another. One of them was turning a handle on a box. It was so overburdened that wizards occasionally fell off and ran along after it, shouting, until they had a chance to jump on again and start screaming. Whoever was attempting to steer was not succeeding, and it weaved back and forth across the road and eventually hurtled off it completely and through the side of a barn. One of the farmers nudged the other. "Oi've seen this on the clicks," he said. "It's always the same. They crash into a barn and they allus comes out the other side covered in squawking chickens." His companion leaned reflectively on his hoe. "It'd be a sight worth seeing that," he said. "Sure would." "'Cos all there is in there, boy, is twenty ton of cabbage." There was a crash, and the chair erupted from the barn in a shower of chickens and headed madly toward the road. The farmers looked at one another. "Well, dang me," said one of them.

It was eight in the morning. A thunderous knocking awoke Bezam Planter, owner of the Odium, one of Ankh-Morpork’s mushrooming crop of moving-picture pits.

The snow had done what even wizards and the Watch couldn’t do, which was clean up Ankh-Morpork.

These were feral, urban birds that lived on what they could find on the streets—Ankh-Morpork streets, at that. They were bobbing, cooing plague pits. You might as well eat a dog-turd burger and wash it down with a jumbo cup of septic tank.

Carrot was not stupid. He was direct, and honest, and good-natured and honourable in all his dealings. In Ankh-Morpork this would normally have added up to ‘stupid’ in any case and would have given him the survival quotient of a jellyfish in a blast furnace, but there were a couple of other factors. One was a punch that even trolls had learned to respect. The other was that Carrot was genuinely, almost supernaturally, likeable. He got on well

Apart from its origins in a purported miraculous vision, the source of Constantine’s famous christogram remains rather mysterious. It bears some similarities to the symbol of the sun god found in the area around the Danube (home of Constantine’s ancestors) and, again, the Egyptian ankh—a symbol of life.8 Rare instances of this symbol in Christian contexts are thought to predate Constantine, mostly on small, personal objects (such as signet rings and tomb inscriptions).9 Moreover, the sign must have been incomprehensible to most western observers, especially to those who knew no Greek or were unaware of this title for the Christian savior god.

And elsewhere in Ankh-Morpork, the Fools’ Guild was on fire. This was a problem, because the Guild’s fire brigade largely consisted of clowns. And this was a problem because, if you show a clown a bucket of water and a ladder, he knows only one way to act. Years of training take over. It’s something in the red nose speaking to him. He can’t help himself. Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch leaned against a wall and watched the show. “We really must put that proposal for a civic fire service to the Patrician again,” he said. Across the street, a clown picked up a ladder, turned, knocked the clown behind him into a bucket of water, then turned again to see what the commotion was, thus sending his rising victim into the bucket again with a surprising parping noise. The crowd

With a mob trashing his restaurant and scrapping in the street outside?” “That’s right, sir.” “Ah. I get it. There’s none so deaf as those that won’t hear, are you saying?” “Something like that, sir, yes. Look, it’s all over, sir. I don’t think anyone’s seriously hurt. It’ll be for the best, sir. Please?” “Is this one of those private dwarf things, Captain?” “Yes, sir—” “Well, this is Ankh-Morpork, Captain, not some mine in the mountains, and it’s my job to keep the peace, and this, Captain, doesn’t look like it. What’re people going to say about rioting in the streets?

Huge untapped reserves of coal and iron ore,” said Carrot. “And fat, of course. The best candles, lamp oils and soap come ultimately from the Shmaltzberg deposits.” “Why? We’ve got our own slaughterhouse, haven’t we?” “Ankh-Morpork uses a great many candles, sir.” “It certainly doesn’t use much soap,” said Vimes. “There are so many uses for fats and tallows, sir. We couldn’t possibly supply ourselves.” “Ah,” said Vimes. The Patrician sighed. “Obviously I hope that we may strengthen our trading links with the various nations within Uberwald,” he said. “The situation there is volatile in the extreme. Do you know much about Uberwald, Commander Vimes?” Vimes, whose knowledge of geography was microscopically detailed within five miles of Ankh-Morpork and merely microscopic beyond that, nodded uncertainly.

Ah,” said Carrot, nodding encouragingly. “Sorry?” said Vimes. “I think there must have been a whole piece of conversation just then that I must have missed.” “A werewolf, a troll and a dwarf,” said Carrot. “Ethnic minorities, sir.” “. . . but, in Uberwald, they are ethnic majorities,” said Lord Vetinari. “All three officers come from there originally, I believe. Their presence will speak volumes.” “So far it hasn’t sent me a postcard,” said Vimes. “I’d rather take—” “Sir, it will show people in Uberwald that Ankh-Morpork is a multicultural society, you see?” said Carrot. “Oh, I see. ‘People like us.’ People you can do business with,” said Vimes, glumly. “Sometimes,” Vetinari said, testily, “it really does seem to me that the culture of cynicism in the Watch is . . . is . . .

One of the Patrician’s greatest contributions to the reliable operation of Ankh-Morpork had been, very early in his administration, the legalizing of the ancient Guild of Thieves. Crime was always with us, he reasoned, and therefore, if you were going to have crime, it at least should be organized crime.

I heard her earlier. She’s probably enjoying herself. She doesn’t really get much of a chance to let herself go in Ankh-Morpork.” “Er . . . no . . .” Vimes had a mental picture of a werewolf letting go. But surely, Angua wouldn’t— “You two, uh . . . you’re getting along okay, are you?” he said, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. “Oh, fine, sir. Fine.” So her turning into a wolf occasionally doesn’t worry you? Vimes couldn’t bring himself to say it. “No . . . problems, then?” “Oh, not really, sir. She buys her own dog biscuits and she’s got her own flap in the door. When it’s full moon I don’t really get involved.

This part of Ankh-Morpork was known as The Shades, an inner-city area sorely in need either of governmental help or, for preference, a flamethrower.

Ankh-Morpork no longer had a fire brigade. The citizens had a rather disturbingly direct way of thinking at times, and it did not take long for people to see the rather obvious flaw in paying a group of people by the number of fires they put out. The penny really dropped shortly after Charcoal Tuesday.

What do you need, Ankh?” “Breathable air, food, water, sleep, but not much of that last one. Why do you want to know that?

the only skill the alchemists of Ankh-Morpork had discovered so far was the ability to turn gold into less gold.

It’s fifteen hundred miles to Ankh-Morpork,” he said. “We’ve got three hundred and sixty-three elephants, fifty carts of forage, the monsoon’s about to break and we’re wearing…we’re wearing…sort of things, like glass, only dark…dark glass things on our eyes…” His voice trailed off. His brow furrowed, as if he’d just been listening to his own voice and hadn’t understood it. The air seemed to glitter. He saw M’Bu staring at him. He shrugged. “Let’s go,” he said.

In Ankh-Morpork the night had a thousand eyes and so did the day, and it also had five hundred mouths and nine hundred and ninety-nine ears.*

The gods bear it in their hands, hold it to the lips of their worshippers, and pour it out in streams over the heads of their favorites. For they actually give life, now by the light which they continually cause to triumph over the powers of darkness, again by the regular recurrence of fructifying waters, or by mysterious operations in the centre of the earth.

We practice policing by consent in Ankh-Morpork. If you feel unable to agree to our request, you only have to say the word.

I’ve told you about this. It was fucking hot. Not just a little bit. Not uncomfortable-hot, but kill-you-hot.” “You’ve told me, but I like how you get so defensive every time you talk about it. It’s sexy when men have a weakness.” “And women have to save me from it?” “It’s what we’ve been doing since the beginning of time, my invincible star warrior.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, encouraging him to smile. “I was raised to believe that men were the providers and could never show vulnerabilities. We have to be the pillar of strength, the bedrock on which the family is built,” he tried to explain. “But if you know that isn’t true, why do you persist?” “It’s not an easy habit to break,” he admitted. “I’m trying. Give me that much, and as long as you and Rivka keep reminding me, we’ll get to where it will be second nature. And then if we ever have kids, we’ll raise them differently. Mom and Dad, out there side by side blasting the ever-living shit out of bad guys.” Lindy chuckled. “Nice image.” She met Red’s eyes and looked deeply into them. “Weren’t you the one who said the men had the women outnumbered on Peacekeeper? You, Chaz, Hamlet, Ankh, and Erasmus. Something like that. Five to three. ‘We are manly men!’” Red liked the way Lindy’s eyes sparkled when she was giving him a hard time. She was making a valid point, though. He had said those very words. “Hamlet is the manliest of us all. That cat doesn’t give a shit.” “And what’s this bit about kids? I’m not even sure I’ll let you be my boyfriend.” He brushed the hair from beside her eye and tucked it behind her ear. With the tip of his finger, he slowly and lightly traced the outside of Lindy’s ear.

There was also the distinctive river smell of the Ankh, which suggested that several armies had used it first as a urinal and then as a sepulcher.

It had the thick texture of authentic Ankh water—too stiff to drink, too runny to plough.

Angua smiled. Interesting facts. Carrot was full of interesting facts about Ankh-Morpork. Angua felt she was floating uneasily on a sea of them. Walking along a street with Carrot was like having three guided tours rolled into one.

In the last hour she’d learned more about Ankh-Morpork than any reasonable person wanted to know. She vaguely suspected that Carrot was trying to court her. But, instead of the usual flowers or chocolate, he seemed to be trying to gift-wrap a city. And, despite all her better instincts, she was feeling jealous. Of a city! Ye gods, I’ve known him a couple of days!

Author-Preneur-Ship is living a few years of your life like most people will not, so that you can spend the rest of your life like most people cannot.

Esos 3 elementos podemos reconocerlos también en el famoso símbolo conocido como la Cruz Ánk, llamada también cruz ansada, o la llave de la vida. Está compuesto de un asa en forma ovalada, un palo horizontal y otro vertical unidos.  Si descomponemos esta forma de la Cruz Ankh, interpretaríamos que la parte superior en forma de círculo simboliza la perfección del espíritu, algo común en todas las culturas; la línea vertical es el enlace con la tierra y la línea horizontal intermedia, el alma que une cielo y tierra. En el Ankh está representado ese enlace entre los 3 niveles del ser humano. Por esto se usó para representar a la vida eterna, pues simboliza al ser humano que se ha realizado, uniendo esos 3 elementos. El espíritu, el alma y la personalidad. Esto nos lleva a otra idea, y es que realmente el espíritu debe estar encarnado en la materia. Fusionado en el mundo físico. En conclusión, este símbolo representa la conexión con lo divino. Solo por tener esa llave en la mano no nos va a dar la eternidad, claro, pues es solo un símbolo.

Schools these days teach people to THINK, LOGICALLY, ANALYITICALLY, VERBALLY, and NUMERICALLY. What happened to FEELINGS, VISION, IMAGINATION, and CREATIVITY?

We’ve now come to terms with goblins in Ankh-Morpork,” said Moist quickly. “It’s a matter of finding something for them to do that they really like doing and are good at and, of course, after that it’s just a case of remembering their names and refraining from kicking them. They can be extremely helpful if unkicked, although not necessarily likeable.

To progress spiritually one must be at peace, not disturbed by commitments or life. Therefore it is important to pay bills and people on time and maintain happy relationships with others!

Then the wizard looked down at the six big coins in his hand. Twoflower had insisted on paying his first four days’ wages in advance. Hugh nodded and smiled encouragingly. Rincewind snarled at him. As a student wizard Rincewind had never achieved high marks in precognition, but now unused circuits in his brain were throbbing and the future might as well have been engraved in bright colours on his eyeballs. The space between his shoulder blades began to itch. The sensible thing to do, he knew, was to buy a horse. It would have to be a fast one, and expensive — offhand, Rincewind couldn’t think of any horse - dealer he knew who was rich enough to give change out of almost a whole ounce of gold. And then, of course, the other five coins would help him set up a useful practice at some safe distance, say two hundred miles. That would be the sensible thing. But what would happen to Twoflower, all alone in a city where even the cockroaches had an unerring instinct for gold? A man would have to be a real heel to leave him. The Patrician of Ankh - Morpork smiled, but with his mouth only. “The Hub Gate, you say?” he murmured. The guard captain saluted smartly. “Aye, lord. We had to shoot the horse before he would stop.

Master Richard Scallion is the youngest person ever to be dimissed from the Postal Service for writing "Oh Yes They Do" on a package for the Duke of Eorle bearing the inscription "PRICELESS ENGRAVINGS - DO NOT BEND

Life is a game. Find the games you want to play, learn the rules, & find a way to be successful

She could just kill them. If she did they would be healed again in moments ☥ She'd better let sleeping demons lie. "Enlightenment." Coming soon

Because if being a badass was easy everyone would do it Lexy of Ankh (The Dragon) "Enlightenment

All hero's are born out of the embers that linger after the fire of great tragedy. Children of Ankh series

The sunlight blinded her. She felt purified by its rays. She had been in the dark for so long, and in so many ways.☥ Children of Ankh series

Unfortunately on the road to Ankh everyone you love must die. Children of Ankh series

I've spent a large portion of the last 40 years hunting Dragons because of you. Be flattered, disturbed... Whatever floats your boat. Tiberius of Triad C.O.A series

The end of her life was only the beginning of her story. Sweet Sleep